


Through the Dark

by melissaeverdeen13



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-04-22 10:31:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 85,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14306775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melissaeverdeen13/pseuds/melissaeverdeen13
Summary: Happily married for seven years, Jackson and April seemingly have the perfect life. It’s everything they’ve ever dreamed of - they’re both head of their departments at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, they own a gorgeous house, and they’re parents to a beautiful baby girl.But how long can perfection last? Every marriage hits bumps in the road, but not all marriages have bumps like theirs. Soon, the couple is blindsided by a challenge they never saw coming. Will their bond be able to last the test of time?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HEY GUYS! I know what you're thinking. I never write two multichapters at a time. But I'm breaking my own rules and doing it, because I couldn't resist this idea. Don't worry - I'm not abandoning Moonlight. I'll make sure they both get equal treatment. With that said, please enjoy TTD!

**APRIL**

I’m the light sleeper between the two of us. If someone’s going to wake up to the baby crying, a tree falling on the roof, or someone robbing the house, it’s me. Jackson is practically useless once he’s fallen asleep for good.

So, unsurprisingly, I tend to wake up first every day. Today is a day unlike any other in that respect, where I open my eyes to the ceiling, under our fluffy white duvet, with a heavy man-arm draped over my middle.

He always finds some way to touch me. We aren’t newly married anymore - we’re going on seven years, with two years of dating to precede that - we don’t fall asleep wrapped up in each other like desperate lovers anymore, nor do we wake up as such. We cuddle after sex, it’d be a crime if we didn’t, but Jackson gets hot while he sleeps. Once he drifts off, he subconsciously shifts away from me and flips onto his stomach.

But in the morning, he’s always touching me with some part of his body. Whether that’s a foot sandwiched between my ankles, his crotch against my ass, or his face on my belly, it’s always something. It makes me smile when I wake up, knowing that he finds me for comfort - almost like a child. 

I turn on my side to face him, stroking his arm as I move. He’s sturdy and capable, strong and masculine, but in sleep he’s soft and vulnerable. Only half his face is showing, the other half smushed against the pillow, and instead of getting up and beating the alarm with a morning run like usual, I stay. I stay and stroke his beard, enjoying the prickly sound that follows as my fingers comb through the coarse hair. 

He trimmed it yesterday morning, but he’s been keeping it thick for the winter. Spring will come soon, though, and I’ll be thankful when it does. I always like the lumberjack look at first, but it wears on me. More so, it wears on my skin. The soft insides of my thighs, my chest, and my face get chafed every time we’re intimate. 

I trail my fingers up his arm, over a shoulder, and down the curves and ridges of his back. He is all brute power and force, which is something about him that still turns me on. Next to his hulking frame, I’m a delicate flower. I like the way we look next to each other, though, and I always have. 

Usually, on Mondays, I’m excited for the work week ahead, but not today. Today, everything is too perfect right where I am to even think about anything else. The house is quiet; my husband, baby, and dog are all still asleep, and everything is under control. I want to bottle this moment and save it for later, when everything inevitably flies off the handle at work. 

Jackson stirs after a few minutes pass, rolling onto his side to expose his warm, bare chest. Without opening his eyes, he reaches for me and I oblige, tucking my body against his and stealing all his heat. 

“Morning, itsy-bitsy,” he says, wrapping his arms tight around my body to keep me close. 

I smile at his use of the nickname I’ve had forever. I can’t remember exactly when he started using it, but it came before we even got engaged. I’ve always been tiny in comparison to him, and everyone always notices, and it stems from that. He frequently shortens it or adds more words, but it’s never worn off. I don’t think it ever will at this point. 

“Hi,” I say, spanning my fingers over his stomach. I like it like this, when it’s soft and he isn’t flexing. “Sleep good?” 

“Mm-hmm,” he says, slipping a hand inside the back of my t-shirt to drag his fingers across my spine. “You?” 

“Yeah,” I say.

“Baby wake up?” 

“Nope,” I say. “She’s been doing so good.” 

“That’s nice,” he says, relaxing further while keeping a good grip on me. “Where’s the yapper?” 

I snort and edge my foot forward a bit, feeling for the lump above the covers. Corky, my 9-year-old Pomeranian, is lying just where I expected him to be. 

“Where he always is,” I say. “Your favorite spot. Right between us.”

He playfully grumbles something unintelligible before asking, “What you got planned for today?”

“Staying in bed with you,” I say, then chuckle at myself. “Wishful thinking.” 

“If only,” he says. 

I walk my fingers across the trail of hair under his belly button, up further to the bottom of his rib cage. “All I know is there’s a new crop of interns headed in today,” I say. “I’m gonna do a little introductory speech and whatnot. Nothing big. Other than that, I’m in the ER.” 

“Maybe you’ll get a big MVC,” he says. 

“Don’t wish that on someone,” I whisper harshly, then meet his eyes with light in mine. “Maybe.” 

We both laugh softly, then he cups my jaw to kiss me. He tastes like sleep and morning breath, but I’m used to it at this point. I don’t really mind. In the familiar way of some lucky mornings, he presses his weight onto his forearms to hover over me, lips on my skin as he shimmies out of his pajama pants.

“Do we have time?” I ask. 

“I’ll go fast,” he answers, hitching my leg high with the knee bent as he pushes inside me. “Just get Dorky off the bed.” 

“Corky,” I hiss, and he blinks his eyes open slowly. “Off the bed. Off. Go on!” I shoo him with one hand, but all he does is close his eyes again. I look up at Jackson with a laugh trapped in my chest. “He’s not going anywhere. Just… just ignore him, honey.” 

He takes a deep breath, but doesn’t argue. We don’t have time for that.

It’s not that morning sex is a rare occurrence, because it’s not. Though seven years have passed, the intimacy between us hasn’t died or gotten anywhere close to fading. Our routine has changed slightly since the baby was born about a year ago; we don’t have nearly as much ‘adult’ time. We have to squeeze it in by whatever means necessary. And if that means a quickie before the alarm goes off, so be it. At least I get to feel him inside me, and I carry that connection for the rest of the day. 

He doesn’t pound me like it’s his last day on earth, though. Today, he takes his time though he said he’d hurry. I like it, I cherish it; I loop my arms around his neck and kiss him while he makes love to me, closing my eyes to savor the feeling. He fills me up in every sense of the word. 

“Did you get a chance…” he hisses, calculating the rhythm of his hips. “To pick up diapers yesterday?” 

“No, damn it,” I say, digging my nails into his sides. “I meant to. I’m sorry. I will today.” 

“NBD,” he replies, adjusting my leg higher. “I can. Just checking so we wouldn’t have double.” 

“We can go together after work,” I say. “Oh, shit. Go a little harder, baby.” 

“Too slow for you?” he asks, eyes gleaming. 

“Didn’t say anything about speed,” I retort with a smile. “Harder.” 

“My baby likes it rough,” he says, laughing and taking heed of what I’ve said. 

I throw my head back with a soft moan and he takes advantage of my exposed neck, opening his mouth wide and trailing kisses over my skin with those lips I love. He sucks on the place where my pulse beats wildly, then moves a little lower to lift my shirt and try to put his mouth on my breasts. 

“Baby, no,” I say, nudging him away with the jerk of one shoulder. “Peyton hasn’t eaten yet. They’re full.” 

“Come on…” he whines, a smile on his face. 

I roll my eyes and yank on his hips to keep them moving. “You don’t even like it,” I say. 

He tried breastmilk a couple months after the baby was born just out of pure curiosity. He claimed it was sweet and thin, but didn’t taste that great. Different than normal milk. It’s not that he wants another taste, it’s that he misses messing with my nipples. I miss that, too, but it’s out of the question right now - especially before her morning feeding. We’d end up in a soaked bed. 

“Fine,” he says, chuckling as he tucks his face into my neck again. 

“You make me laugh,” I say, hands on his ass as he strengthens his thrusts.

“If we ever run out of coffee creamer, I know someone who can make it,” he says, giggling mischievously while peppering gentle kisses across my jaw. 

“Shush,” I say. “Pey’s gonna be up soon. We gotta get moving.” 

“Alright, alright,” he concedes. “That means a little less talk, a lot more action.” 

I laugh and wrap my legs around his waist as high as they’ll go, closing my eyes as he buries himself deep inside me. Every pump of his hips is contained and measured; he doesn’t even have to try anymore. He’s just that good. 

I come first this morning, and I’m still trembling with the effects of my orgasm while he empties himself inside me. That’s when the control of his pelvis goes out the window and he bucks against my body like a bull gone rampant - with about as much force, too. He’s so strong, and when his muscles take over his brain, there’s no way to reel them in. I cling to him and soak up every untied, unwound moment.

“Ugh,” he grunts, pulling out and lowering himself between my legs - where both of our fluids have collected. “You’re sexy.” 

I bend my knees and widen my thighs, agreeing with his use of this rare, extended morning before one of two alarm clocks sounds - our phones or the baby crying. Neither have gone off yet, and I’d love nothing more than for him to give me head. We haven’t had the time or energy for it in forever. 

“ _ You’re _ sexy,” I whisper back, lifting my hips to adjust them. 

He presses quick, repetitive kisses over my vulva, separating the lips to sloppily go inside with his tongue and teeth. 

“Oh, Jesus, shit,” I hiss, feeling his nose nudge my clit just slightly. When he goes down on me, he puts his whole face into it. There’s no half-ass with Jackson and cunnilingus. I’m very lucky. 

“Oh yeah, baby,” he says, lifting up for a moment to lick his lips. When he goes back in, he pats my outer thighs and drags a flat tongue inside me, over the folds of my inner lips, all the way to touch my vagina. “Oh… yeah, baby.” 

I would roll my eyes at him if he weren’t making me feel so good. His fingernails dig into the skin over my hip bones, and my back arches from the mattress while he sucks and licks me within an inch of consciousness. He teases me - doesn’t go near my clit until I’m throbbing and beyond soaking wet. And when he does touch it, he only traces the hood with the tip of his tongue while the nerves buzz for attention. 

“Jackson,” I rasp. “Any minute now. Any damn-” 

Interrupting my sentence, familiar sounds come through the baby monitor. Rustling and shifting, which means that Peyton is on her way to waking up.

“Quick,” I urge him. “Just… suck it, would you, please? She’s almost up.”

He smiles and laughs against me, pulling roughly on my hips so they’re flush against his mouth, and voraciously shakes his head back and forth with his tongue pressed against my clit. I start moaning, whimpering, pleading for him to finish me off, but the sounds I make don’t overpower the fussing coming from the baby monitor.

I can’t possibly have an orgasm while my baby is whining in my ear, and it isn’t coming fast enough. It isn’t anything Jackson is doing wrong, but now my mind is elsewhere. 

“I gotta get her,” I say, sitting up and leaving him high and dry. After I tug on my shirt, I look at his face and see that it’s shiny from his chin to his cheekbones. “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “She’s the boss.” 

“Yes, she is,” I say, haphazardly searching for my pants he discarded. 

“Want me to get her, bare-ass?” he asks, slipping out of bed while stepping into his pants. 

“Please,” I say, scurrying to the dresser to find something to make myself decent. It’s not like Peyton would care, but walking to greet my baby in the morning with a naked ass isn’t exactly on the top of my to-do list. 

As he leaves the room, Corky follows Jackson probably in search of food. When he realizes he’s not going to get anything, he comes trotting back inside and hops up to lay in his spot again.

When Jackson comes back in holding the baby, I’m wearing a pair of soft drawstring pants and a looser shirt, one that will be easier to nurse her in. “Hi, baby boo!” I say, arms outstretched. “Did Dada come and get you this morning? Huh? Did you get to see your Dada?” 

“She left a very special present for Dada, too,” he says, grumbling lightheartedly, as he hands our 11-month old over. “But she’s clean now.” 

“Good,” I say. “Hi, little Peanut. Hi, baby boo-boo.” 

Peyton, our beautiful little baby, looks at me and smiles. She has four teeth - two on top and two on the bottom - and her eyes crinkle when she grins as big as she did just then. She buzzes her lips and reaches for my face, and I get closer to her, too. 

“Can I have a kiss?” I say. “Give Mama kiss?”

She plunks her head forward, landing with an open mouth near my chin. Her version of a kiss.

“Oh, so good,” I say, smooching her forehead loudly. “So good, so good.”

I lean back against the headboard and lift my shirt for Peyton, who is a pro at this point. She nestles against my chest, resting her body sideways on my stomach, and latches to my breast quickly and naturally. I run my fingers through her curls while she nurses, and her eyes flutter closed as she’s soothed by the sound of my heartbeat close by.

“I know it’s about time…” I whisper, watching our perfect creation as Jackson looks on.

“Yeah,” he says, softly agreeing. He leans forward and kisses the back of her head, though, just as in love with her as I am. “It is.”

“She’s getting too old,” I say. “Pretty soon, she’ll bite me.” 

He chuckles, then kisses my lips over her head. “And just between us,” he says. “I want them back.”

“You’re selfish,” I whisper, but bump my nose gently against his. “It’s just such a sweet stage.” 

“I have a solution,” he says. 

“What’s that, honey.” 

He lifts my chin with one finger and looks into my eyes, a smile in his. “We’ll just have to have another one,” he says. 

“Another baby,” I say. “When she’s not even a year old?” 

“Oh… why not,” he says. “Get off the pill, let’s have one more. We already proved we make cute kids.” 

“Damn cute,” I say. “The cutest.” 

“We’re basically the best at procreation,” he says. “It would be selfish not to make another one. We’d be depriving the world of our offspring.” 

I laugh loudly, which startles Peyton and makes her jump. I quiet down and make a face at Jackson, who’s still grinning. 

“Everyone at the hospital will make fun,” I say. “Say we don’t know how to use birth control.” 

“Eh, let ‘em,” he says. “What’s the harm? They’re just jealous.” 

“Jealous, huh?” I say, then hold the baby’s little body as I crane my neck for another kiss. He gives me one, sweet and lasting, then strokes Peyton’s back.

“Yeah, that’s totally it,” he says. 

I keep quiet for a moment, adjusting the way I’m sitting so the baby can lie more comfortably. “Maybe in a year,” I say, watching her. “When she’s two. That’s a good age difference, and we could actually plan it.”

“April and her plans, plans, plans,” Jackson says, and I extend one leg to kick him with a socked foot. Instead of following through, though, he stops me and grabs it, then playfully bites the arch. 

“Shush up,” I say, then Peyton detaches and squirms to try and sit up. I hand her to Jackson, who slings the burp cloth over his shoulder, then slide out of bed. “I got the shower first,” I say. “You’re on baby duty ‘til I get out.” 

“Got it, sarge,” he says, and earns himself a slap between the shoulder blades because of it. 

…

After we drop Peyton off at the hospital daycare, we go our separate ways. 

“Can you meet for lunch?” I ask, shrugging into my lab coat after changing into scrubs. He’s just tying the drawstring on his; I find it cute because he still has to look while he does it after all these years. 

“Maybe,” he says. “You have an open window?”

“I should,” I say. “I’ll let you know if it changes.”

“Alright,” he says. “Maybe we could eat with Peanut.”

“That sounds perfect,” I say, then gather my pens to slip them inside my front pocket. “Okay. Gotta go.” 

“Don’t forget to kiss your husband,” he says, peering over his shoulder as I walk past. I giggle, shake my head, and retrace my steps to press a quick, chaste kiss to his lips. 

I have somewhat of a slow morning. There’s a few hours before the new group of interns come in that I spend reorganizing the trauma supply closet after an apparently incompetent resident did it yesterday. I can’t quite remember who I assigned the job to, but I have to make a note never to ask them again. By giving away my usual task, I piled double the responsibility on myself.

We get a few minor incoming traumas, but nothing that steals my attention for more than an hour at a time. When noon rolls around and it’s time for the interns to come by, I practically rejoice. I never thought I’d say that. 

Chief Bailey brings them around; all of them are huddled together like wet cats in a storm, clutching their notepads like life rafts. I smile to myself as I remember being in their place, scribbling in that red notebook that Jackson makes fun of me for to this day. I have a green Moleskine now that I write odds and ends in, but he still gets after me for it. I chuckle a bit just thinking of it. 

“This is our Head of Trauma, Dr. April Kepner,” Bailey says. “She runs this ER and knows it forwards and backwards. She’s easily the most organized, responsible, and down-to-business surgeon we have here.” She shoots me a congenial look. “But she’s also the kindest. If you ever need advice,  _ my _ advice would be to seek Dr. Kepner first. Her people skills are fantastic, which is an area where all of you need to improve.” 

“Hi, everyone,” I say, taking a few steps forward. “Thank you, Dr. Bailey, for the shining introduction. I’m not sure if I can live up to that.” 

I break the ice with that little comment, which is what I had meant to do. 

“If you’re looking for a fast-paced, high-energy, demanding environment, then you’d be the perfect fit for a trauma surgeon,” I say. “It didn’t take me long to figure out that this was where I needed to be. I came in hoping for a steady, predictable schedule, but once I got my first taste of the adrenaline rush that comes with life-or-death situations, there was no going back. Now, I’m pretty much a trauma junkie.” 

I get a few laughs for that, too. 

“And I proved my past self wrong, too,” I continue. “You can still have a family as a trauma surgeon. The hospital is wonderful about maternity leave, and family always comes first to Chief Bailey.” 

“That’s right,” she agrees, then nods while looking behind me. “And would you look at that. Speak of the dashing devil himself.” 

I turn around to be met with my baby’s face right in mine - Jackson zooming her through the air in his sturdy hands. “Hello there, Dr. Kepner,” he says, after I’ve given Peyton a little kiss. “I was just coming to get you for lunch.” 

“Perfect,” I say, then take the baby and place her on my hip. “I’ll see you all around, I’m assuming,” I say cordially. 

I turn to follow Jackson to the cafeteria when a voice pipes up behind me. “Are you married to Dr. Avery?” a young man asks. He’s medium-height, medium-build, with blue eyes and brown hair. 

“That’s highly inappropriate, Michaels,” Bailey says, frowning. “Around here, we don’t go around spouting personal questions like-” 

“Dr. Kepner is my wife,” Jackson says, wrapping an arm around the small of my back in the possessive way I’ve always secretly loved. I’ll never tell him that, though. 

I clear my throat softly. “Yes. We’ve been married for… going on seven years now. Outside the hospital, I go by Kepner-Avery. In here, though, I don’t. It gets a little confusing.” 

I’m not sure why I felt like I owed him that information. I didn’t, really. Bailey said everything that needed to be said, but I spewed anyway. I try and brush it off. There’s nothing I can do to bring it back, and he doesn’t even give a response. 

Shrugging it off, Jackson and I walk away with Peanut between us, heading to lunch. 

“How’s your day been so far?” he asks. “Other than that nosy intern.” 

“Fine,” I say, hitching the baby higher. “Kinda boring. I’m hoping for a big catastrophe while I’m in the middle of my salad. Is that bad?” 

“Horrible,” he says, and we get in line. “You’re going to you-know-where.” 

I nudge him with my shoulder and smirk. “Meet you there, then.”

“Oh, yeah. We’ve known that’s where I’ll end up.” 

I snicker and roll my eyes. “Oh, shut up. You’re the Good Samaritan here, if anyone.” 

“Says you, Trauma Barbie.” 

“ _ Don’t _ ,” I say, pinching his waist. He cracks up laughing and orders a turkey wrap. 

We sit down and I hold Peyton on my lap while eating my salad - meagerly picking at it, really. She reaches for stray pieces of lettuce that fall to try them, but she really only marinates them in her mouth without really swallowing. She isn’t big on solid foods yet. Soft pasta, applesauce, baby food and breastmilk, that’s all she’ll go for right now. 

“We should start throwing around ideas for your mom and dad’s 45th,” Jackson says, picking the tomatoes out of his wrap. “Damn it. I forgot to tell them no tomatoes.” 

“I was gonna say something,” I say. 

“You should’ve.” 

“Didn’t wanna be naggy.” 

“Coming from you, I’m used to it,” he says. I pretend to laugh and then give him a deadpan expression, which makes him chuckle. “But your mom and dad’s party is what… two weeks away?” 

“Yeah,” I say. “Lib and Alice are supposed to get back to me about the venue.” 

“Do you think your parents will really be surprised?” he asks. “What if they already know? They’re nice enough just to go along with it for your guys’ sake.”

“They do  _ not _ know,” I say. “Unless…” I narrow my eyes. “A blabbermouth told them at Carmine’s last weekend.”

“What?” he says. “You think… me? No! I didn’t say anything. But you never know with Kimmie. She’s always spouting off about something.” 

“I think it was you,” I say, poking his arm to tease him. Then, I lean forward to look at Peyton’s face as she watches us intently. “I think it was Daddy. Know why? ‘Cause Daddy’s got a big mouth. He can’t keep anything to himself.” 

“I promise!” he says, amidst laughter. “I didn’t say a word. I kept my cool. They even mentioned their anniversary and I barely acknowledged it.”

“Okay, okay,” I say. “Fine, I believe you.” 

“I did tell them to work on their surprised faces, though.” 

“Jackson!” I say, and he bursts out laughing like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever said. 

“I’m kidding!” he says. “I’m kidding, geez.” 

We eat our lunches talking about mundane, everyday things, then Peyton gets fussy just as we’re finishing up. 

“It’s getting close to naptime,” I say. “You wanna take her back, or me?” 

“I can,” he says.

“Well…” I say, looking at the time. “I’ll just come with you.” 

We walk to daycare together and Peyton fights sleep in Jackson’s arms. When we give her to the worker, she squalls and whines to be handed back. 

“We’ll see you in a little bit,” I tell her. “Go take a nice nap, and Mama and Daddy will be back in a few hours.” 

“Love you, Peanut,” Jackson says, kissing her head while she’s in the daycare worker’s arms. “Aw,” he says, as we walk away. 

“She’s just sleepy.”

“I’m sleepy too, damn,” he says, yawning for effect. “You woke me up too early today.” 

“I didn’t wake you up at all,” I say. 

“Felt you staring. Had to open my eyes.” 

“If I remember correctly, you never finished what you started this morning,” I say under my breath.

He raises his eyebrows. “You’re right,” he says. “I’ll have to make up for it tonight. Rain check?” 

“Maybe Pey can go to bed a little early…” I trail off. 

“We could finally crack open that bottle of red,” he says, matching my tone. 

“That sounds amazing,” I say. “You-” 

“April!” a voice calls, and I turn to see Dr. Hunt beckoning me from the direction of the pit.

“Oh, shoot. Gotta go,” I say, then stand on my tiptoes to kiss Jackson quickly. “Tonight. Me and you.” 

He nods and smiles, and I’m off like a flash. I jog to meet Owen in the pit and he ushers me in, debriefing me on the newest patient just admitted. 

“There seems to be a rectal obstruction,” he says. “We’re not quite sure what it is yet, and he won’t tell us. The X-Ray should show everything we need to know. He’s in there right now. I’m handing this case over to you. I gotta be in surgery in ten minutes.”

“Sounds good,” I say. Though I’m officially Head of Trauma, Owen and I run the ER like partners. We work well together. “Rectal obstruction… seriously,” I say under my breath, then practically crash into Arizona in the hall on the way to meet my patient. 

“Hey, lady,” she says, peering over to see the labs I’m holding. “Whatcha got?” 

I raise my eyebrows and scratch my cheekbone. “Very exciting. Rectal obstruction.”

She makes a flabbergasted face and I start laughing. “Jesus Christ, people,” she says, then shakes her head, stunned. “I can’t imagine.” 

“Can’t imagine what,” I say lightheartedly, flipping through the papers in my hands. 

“Sticking something up there!” she hisses. “Are you kidding me!” 

“Zona,” I say, chuckling. “Don’t shame people.” 

“I’m not shaming,” she says. “I’m just saying, I can’t imagine it for myself.” To her, my silence is telling. She knows me well enough. So, after a beat has passed, she looks over with wide eyes and an open mouth, smacking me on the shoulder as she says, “Have you done it?!” 

I close my eyes and raise my eyebrows, lips turning down in a seemingly innocent expression. “I didn’t say a thing,” I respond. 

“You…” she says, utterly surprised. “You and Jackson? Anal?” 

“Shhh!” I shush, waving a hand around. “Don’t announce it to everybody. I’m not saying it’s an everyday thing, but we’ve… experimented.”

“With what?” she asks, curious now. 

I narrow my eyes. “This stays only between us.” 

“Of course.” 

I look either way to make sure no one’s coming. “We have tried…” I clear my throat. “Sex. And… items… sensual items. The finger every once in a while… his tongue…”

“April!” she shrills, lips all scrunched. “You’re nasty. You two are nasty!” 

“Shush!” I giggle, catching sight of the same intern who asked the inappropriate question earlier today. “Be quiet, I swear. Quiet.” 

“Hi, Dr. Kepner,” he says, approaching. 

“Hello,” I say, trying to keep my smile at bay. “Uh, this is Dr. Robbins. She works in peds. I’m not sure if you’ve had a chance to meet her yet.” 

“I haven’t,” he says, then extends his hand. “I’m Vince Michaels.”

“He’s one of the new interns,” I tell her, then look back at him. “Where’s your group?” 

He looks around like he’s noticing for the first time that they’re not surrounding. “Oh,” he says. “I… I got separated. I didn’t know anyone else, so I was looking for you.” 

“Oh, looking for me,” I say. “Well, I was headed down to meet my patient and grab his X-Rays. You’re welcome to tag along, if you’d like.” 

“I would like,” Vince says, and matches stride on the side Arizona isn’t on. 

“I have patients to check on,” Arizona says, and I widen my eyes at her so Vince can’t see. I don’t want her to leave me alone with him, but she doesn’t seem to want to be with him, either. “I’ll catch up with you later, April. Wouldn’t want to get  _ behind _ .” 

“I hate you,” I mutter, jaw clenched while trying to fight a smile.

As she walks away, Vince says, “What was she talking about, getting behind?” 

I look over, stomach jumping, though he has no idea what she meant. “Oh, nothing,” I say. “Don’t worry about it. Why don’t I help you find your way back to the group?” 

“That would be great,” he says, and holds my eyes for a bit too long. 

As we walk through the hospital in the direction of the first floor, where I assume the rest of the interns are, I see Jackson at the nurse’s station of the plastics wing. He sees me, too, and also the tagalong that’s leeched to my side. 

He gives me a funny look at first, too far away to comment. Then, his face forms into mock-suggestiveness, licking his lips and wiggling his eyebrows, then pursing his mouth and nodding in an overly-exaggerated manner. I roll my eyes and ignore him, then continue on my way with the lost intern. 

I reunite him with the group eventually, but as we get closer, Vince seems to drag his feet. 

“Got a lost one for you, Bailey,” I say, then usher him forward with a hand on his back. 

“Ah, I thought I was missing a duckling,” she says. “Thank you, Kepner.” 

“No problem,” I say, then smile benignly at Vince before I walk away.

…

“Seemed like you got a little puppy love going on,” Jackson says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the tune of the song playing. “What’s this song? Sounds familiar.” 

I glance at the radio, where he could easily read it if he so chose. “‘September’ by Earth, Wind, and Fire covered by Taylor Swift,” I say. 

“Damn, she really went in,” he says, nodding along.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about with ‘puppy love,’” I claim. 

He looks at me and scoffs before putting his eyes back on the road. “Oh, sure,” he says. “Yeah, that intern following you around all day had these big doe eyes for you. He was practically drooling.” 

“Who, Vince Michaels?” I ask. 

“Any relation to Jillian?” Jackson asks. “Maybe he can whip me into shape. Although, that seems like something he’d probably want to do to you.” 

“Stop it,” I say. “He was lost. I was helping him out.”

“He asked if you were married,” Jackson points out. “That’s a man with an interest.” 

“Oh, whatever,” I say. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, boo.” 

“Just about everything looks good on me,” he says pompously, puffing out his chest. “And you know it.” 

“I know nothing of the sort,” I say. 

“But I look best in nothing,” he says. “Ain’t that right?”

“Jackson,” I say, rolling my eyes. 

“Or would you rather see Vince Michaels in nothing?” 

I shake my head and look out the window for a moment, then turn around to Peyton in the back seat. “Your daddy’s a maniac,” I say, then grab her foot and squeeze it. “Hear me? A maniac!” 

We make it home and Jackson still doesn’t relent. I change my clothes, let the dog out and back in again, and as I’m walking towards the kitchen, he’s standing in front of the fridge presumably looking for something to make for dinner. 

“Hey,” he says, turning. “While you were getting changed, I called Vince. Invited him over. He said I could still sit at the table while you guys play happy families, though.” 

My face blooms a hot crimson and I set my hands flat on the black kitchen counter. “Jackson, seriously. Stop it. It’s not funny anymore.” 

“Aw, come on, bitsy. Vince just wants to-” 

“No!” I say, and raise my voice higher than I intended, which makes Peyton fuss in the high chair attached to the counter. “Geez, no, I’m sorry. But… no.” 

He sighs, expression crumbling as he watches me go comfort the baby. I lift her out and place her on my chest, and she wraps her arms as best she can around my neck. I rub her back while keeping my eyes on her father, who’s getting out ingredients for dinner with his figurative tail tucked between his legs. 

We don’t talk much while we eat because the air is thick with crackly tension. Both of us talk to Peyton and feed her little bites that she can handle, but the conversation doesn’t flow.

After dinner, we clean up the dishes and put them in the kitchen while Peyton plays on the baby rug with Corky lying nearby. “I got this,” Jackson says, wiping his palms on his lounge pants. 

“You cooked,” I say. “I should clean. At least, let me help.”

“Nah,” he says. “If you wanna put her to bed, I can handle it. Double-team.” 

“Okay,” I say. “Sure. Come on, Peanut Butter. Let’s go night-night.” 

I swoop the baby up from the floor and she snuggles close to my neck, fingers spread wide over my sternum. I change her diaper, get her into pajamas, and sit on the rocking chair with the dog at my feet while Peyton takes a bottle. 

“We gotta get you used to these,” I say, looking into her round eyes - seafoam like her daddy’s. “No more Mommy’s milk.”

As if she understands what I’m saying, one hand finds its way to the collar of my shirt as she detaches from the nipple of the bottle. 

“Ah-ah,” I say, then pull it back up. “Here. Ba-ba. Not Mama.” 

“Mama,” she says with a smile, finding herself incredibly amusing. 

“No, no,” I say, grinning as I encourage the bottle towards her lips. “This is just as good. I know you like it.” 

“Mama, mama, mama,” she says, babbling, and turns her head away from the bottle when I try to give it to her one more time. She gets a good grip on my shirt again and haphazardly moves her little fist around, letting me know exactly what she wants. 

I sigh. “Okay,” I concede, then pull my shirt and bra down to oblige my baby. As I stroke her curls and watch her eyes drift shut, I can’t force myself to feel guilty for allowing it. She won’t be this little forever. 

What’s important to me is seeing her so up-close. Her face with its precious features - those long eyelashes, plush lips and soft swells of her cheeks. Having her this near to my heart makes my chest expand with love for her.

She falls asleep almost instantly, anyway, and stays that way when I lift her away from my chest. I hold her close for a moment, her cheek squished against my clavicle, and close my eyes. 

“My perfect Peyton,” I whisper, dragging my fingers up and down her tiny back. “My perfect little Peanut.”

Almost as if summoned, Jackson appears in the doorway with a soft expression on his face. I wave him over with a flick of my head, and he steps inside.

“Come say goodnight, Daddy,” I tell him, and he bends to kiss the back of her head - what he can reach. 

“I love you, Peanut baby,” he says, then walks with me as I lay her down in the crib. 

After we turn her mobile and white noise machine on and light off, the two of us walk into the hall together and head towards our room. It isn’t late, but I’m exhausted. The day, while uneventful, was long. I’m feeling the effects of it now. 

I feel the way he’s looking at me without glancing over, though, and I need to do something about it. I don’t like going to bed angry, or even frustrated. 

I sit down on the side of the mattress, elbows on my knees, and hunch forward. Of course, Corky follows like always and turns in three circles before getting comfortable at the foot of the bed. I massage my temples when I say, “I’m sorry for snapping.” 

My words catch Jackson’s attention. He lifts his head and his eyes find me, centering and taking pause. 

“Thanks,” he says, then strips off his shirt. He’s always warm, no matter the season or temperature of our house. “I’m sorry for being a dumbass about it, too. That was out of line.”

“Thanks,” I say, then shrug. “I just don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.” 

“I know,” he says.

I stay where I am as he comes over, lifting a knee onto the bed and crawling to my side. I feel his hands on my shoulders first, kneading them in a way only he can. I hadn’t realized how tense they were until he started, and now I let my head fall to one side as he turns me to putty in his fingers. 

“Feel nice?” he asks. 

I nod. “Mm-hmm.”

He lowers to kiss the side of my neck slowly, breathing through his nose onto the sensitive skin. He opens his mouth just slightly and runs his tongue over my thrumming pulse, moving to wrap his arms around my shoulders from behind. I know what he’s doing - he feels guilty for how he acted earlier and he’s making up for it. I don’t mind, though. I’ve already forgiven him; it was a stupid almost-fight, but I’m not in the mood to turn down sex.

“If I remember right, I’m pretty sure I owe you for this morning,” he murmurs, lips moving against me.

“You do,” I say, then he reaches lower to pull the hem of my tank top gently and discard it behind us. 

“Refresh my memory,” he says, lying me down and inching my sweatpants off. “Where was I?” 

He pulls my underwear down my legs and I reach up and flick the bedside lamp on - I always enjoy seeing him during sex. His facial expressions are half the excitement for me. Plus, I don’t like being surprised. I like knowing what he’s doing. 

“You were about to give me some amazing head,” I say. 

“If my memory serves, I already was,” he says. “I just hadn’t gotten you there quite yet.” 

“Guess you’ll have to work me back up,” I say, and he chuckles darkly before bending his neck and peppering kisses over my inner thighs and outer lips. He makes sure no area goes untouched, swiping over with his fingers what his mouth can’t reach, and only licks me after I’m good and worked up. 

“Oh, baby,” I whisper, running my fingers through his hair while he yanks my hips closer to his mouth. “You’re so good to me.” 

He smiles against my heat, buried up to his nose again. In some aspects, I’m in complete control with the position we’re in - but in others, he is. The way I feel is in the palm of his hand, almost literally. He has the power to push me over the edge, but also the power to keep me away from it, too. 

“You taste so good,” he says, coming up for air and dropping kisses over the front of my legs. 

“Yeah?” I breathe. “What do I taste like, baby?”

“You taste like my wife,” he says, smiling as he pushes three fingers inside me with no warning at all. My mouth falls open, eyes rolling back, and he propels himself upward to give me a heady kiss on the lips. “You taste like that,” he says. 

I moan as he sinks back down, opening my body and presenting it to him. I extend my arms out to either side and lift my back from the bed while he sucks hard on my clit, then dig my knees into his sides. I work my hips quick and rough against his face, but he holds them down with one strong arm acting as a belt against my lower belly. I love feeling powerless as he manipulates my nerves and gets me to climax. It’s what does it to me almost every time. 

“Oh, Jackson, shit!” I yell, perspiration dotting my hairline and collarbones. “Shit, I’m close. Get me there, baby, come on. Come on, come on, come on…  _ oh _ my  _ god _ …!” 

My voice breaks at the top as my orgasm pulses through me - ebbing and flowing through my muscles and nerves, swimming in my chest and behind my eyes. He doesn’t stop, either, as it washes over me. Instead, he keeps sucking and fucking me with his fingers, and I have a second orgasm right after the first - one that rattles my hips and renders me speechless through most of it. Not at the end, though, when I let loose a shattered scream at the top of my lungs. 

Almost directly following the shriek, though, is a much younger cry. It’s tinny, sounding through the baby monitor, but it’s present and persistent. 

“Damn it,” I pant, chest still heaving. My body still throbs with the orgasm; it hasn’t completely left yet. 

“I got her,” he says. “You stay here and try to remember your name, bitsy-baby.” 

I manage a halfhearted, exhausted smile in his direction, and try to find my way back to center before he comes back with Peyton. Peyton, who’s grumpy and rubbing her eyes, whining to be in my arms. Luckily, I’ve found a new pair of underwear and a college t-shirt of Jackson’s to make myself decent. 

“Baby woke up ‘cause Mama’s a screamer…” Jackson says, sitting down. Peyton immediately crawls out of his arms and into mine, where she snuggles close. If possible, she gets even closer when I lie down, sandwiched between myself and her father.

I smirk softly and reach to rest a flat hand on his chest. I open my eyes and look at his perfect profile, the profile I wake up to every morning, and stretch to give him a kiss. I don’t mind the mouthful of beard that comes with it. 

“Love you,” I whisper, as the baby is already drifting off between us. 

He glances over, a smile in his eyes. “Love you, too,” he says. “And our little cockblocker.” 

I snicker quietly, pressing an errant kiss to the baby’s forehead. “Do you really want another one?” I ask, playfully. “Another baby to interrupt our sex life?” 

He turns on his side to face both of us, resting a heavy, comforting hand on the dip of my waist. “If they’re all as perfect as you,” he says. “I want a million more.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**JACKSON**

I love waking up next to my wife.

I think that, along with being married, comes the obvious devotion and care for your spouse. But with me and April, it’s more than that. I’m obsessed with her. Not in a gross, unhealthy way, but I think about her all the time. When we both have busy days at work and I don’t see her, I wonder what she’s thinking about.

When we were first married, I used to leave little notes in her lab coat pockets just to let her know she was on my mind. I keep reminding myself to start that up again, but after the baby was born my memory went to shit.

I like having April near me. I like waking up when she’s already awake, which is always the case, and seeing her eyes on me. Usually they’re bright and wakeful, but my guilty pleasure is seeing them tired and cloudy with sleep. That’s when she’s the most cuddly - when she hasn’t quite risen to the surface yet. She’ll bury her face in my chest and wrap that little body around me - that’s when everything falls into place.

When I drift into consciousness, I skim the sheet next to me and feel for her without opening my eyes. When I don’t feel a small, warm body next to mine, though, I open them and see her standing in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of our bedroom.

She’s turned to the side, examining. She’s wearing a pair of low-rise black underwear and a fitted camisole, light blue in color. Her cute little ass is peeking out from the bottom of her panties, which makes me smile first thing in the morning.

“What’re you doing?” I ask, still groggy as I turn on my side to see her better.

She pulls the hem of the camisole up to expose her stomach that’s moving in and out slightly as she breathes. She sucks it in, holds it, then lets it all out. She turns and cups her boobs, lifting them a little higher, then tips her head to the side as she studies her reflection.

“Am I still hot?” she asks, spinning around to look at her ass over her shoulder. She skims a hand over it and I wish it were my touch instead.

She takes her eyes off the glass and directs them towards me. I don’t have an answer ready, because she already knows what I’ll say. All I can do is lay there and chuckle.

“What?” she says. “Jackson, come on. Am I a hot wife? Or am I some dowdy mother now that we had a baby?”

I flop onto my back with a loud sigh. “Itty-bitty, come on,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “You still got it. We all know that.”

“Who’s ‘we?’” she asks, pushing the topic playfully as she comes nearer.

“Me, the whole neighborhood, the hospital,” I say. “Pretty much everyone in their right mind wants to bone you.”

“Now you’re just buttering me up,” she says, leaning forward with her hands on the mattress beside me. I flip over to face her, the covers wrapped around my waist to leave my chest bare. She flattens one palm in the middle of my pecs and bends to give me a quick kiss on the mouth.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, then snag the waistband of her underwear with my pointer finger as she turns to leave. “Hey, where’re you going? Let’s have a quickie.”

“Your sucking-up didn’t work that well,” she says, unlatching my finger. “I’m getting in the shower. Listen for the baby.”

Peyton sleeps longer today, allowing both April and I to shower before she demands attention. Wrapped in a towel, April crosses the hall to our baby’s room and comes back with Peyton’s head resting on her shoulder, pacifier moving in her mouth.

“Good morning, beautiful,” I say, my own towel wrapped around my waist. “You slept in today.”

“I guess we could’ve had a quickie,” April says, craning her neck as she passes by.

“Don’t rub it in,” I say, laughing as I put toothpaste on my toothbrush.

“Ooh…” she sings playfully, bouncing our still-sleepy baby. “Hey, boo. You like what you see?”

I glance over at her with my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth and she flashes me quickly, pulling her towel down to expose her chest. Her smile is wide and mischievous as I come closer, and she spins out of my grip as I try to hold her waist.

“Tease,” I say, smacking her ass as she scampers away.

As I trim the edges of my beard, April chooses an outfit while holding Peyton in the closet. I hear her talking in high-pitched, lilting tones, and I can’t help but smile to myself. Mornings with them are the best.

She comes out, hair air-dried curly, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Casual, since we’ll change into scrubs once we get to the hospital anyway.

“I’m gonna straighten my hair,” she says, outstretching her arms that still hold the baby. “Will you take her?”

“Sure,” I say, and the baby’s warm weight is transferred over. “Hi, Peanut.”

April smiles at the both of us, and I quickly put on a shirt and jeans and head out of the bedroom towards the kitchen to make breakfast. On the way there, though, distracted by the toothy grin on my baby’s face, I trip over the dog and practically get a faceful of the tiled kitchen floor.

Corky yelps and skitters away, and I have to hold tight to Peyton to keep her from being jostled all that much. I do a few stutter-steps to regain my footing, then brace one hand on the kitchen counter to steady myself.

“God damn it!” I curse, still coming down from the rush of adrenaline. “Sorry, baby. You’re okay. We’re okay.”

But she isn’t soothed by my words. Instead, she starts to cry - looking just like April as she does, her eyes pinched shut tight and mouth turned in a dramatic frown.

“What’s going on out there?” April calls from the bathroom.

“We’re good!” I shout back, rubbing Peyton’s back.

She’s still whimpering as I turn on the stove, so I keep her in my arms instead of putting her in the high chair. She sucks hard on the pacifier with glassy eyes, warily looking around while keeping one flat hand on my chest.

April comes out when I’ve made enough scrambled eggs, toast, and cut up strawberries for all of us. Her hair is shiny and straight in a way she almost never wears it, and I can’t help but wonder what the reason is today.

“New hair,” I say, adjusting the baby as I set the plates on the breakfast counter.

“Why was she crying?” April asks, then takes the baby’s hand to kiss it. “What happened, baby boo?”

“I tripped over the damn dog and almost ate shit on the floor,” I say. “Seriously. You’d think if he saw a pair of big-ass feet coming, he might wanna move.”

“He’s old,” she says. “He sleeps hard.”

“You’re defending the dog when he almost made me chuck our kid across the room,” I say, slipping Peyton into the high chair.

“I’m not defending the _dog_ , Jackson. It was a comment,” she says, rolling her eyes lightly. “I’m sorry you tripped. Corky’s sorry, too.”

“Dorky isn’t sorry for shit,” I say, chuckling once so my shoulders bounce.

“If you’re not careful, her first real word is gonna be ‘shit,’” April says, taking a sip of her black coffee. I don’t know how she drinks it like that.

“Hey, you’re not off the hook there, either,” I say.

She raises her palms in mock-surrender. “Never said I was,” she says.

I laugh a little bit and put some of my eggs on toast, then take a big bite. As I chew, I notice April isn’t eating much - just picking at things while drinking her coffee.

“You better eat, babe,” I say. “It’s getting cold.”

“I’m not gonna have much,” she says, then pats her stomach. “I gotta look nice in that dress for the party tonight."

I furrow my eyebrows. “Party?”

“Jackson, seriously,” she says, shaking her head. “Jo and Alex’s engagement and housewarming party is tonight at their new place in Bucktown. The walkup? That Jo’s been talking about forever? They finally got settled. I told you about this last week.”

She probably did, but there’s a good chance I wasn’t listening. “Sounds fun,” I say. “What dress?”

“What dress!” she exclaims, but with a smile on her face. “You’re lucky you’re so handsome. I got it at Nordstrom a couple weekends ago. I went shopping with your beloved Izzie, remember?”

Admittedly, Izzie is not my favorite friends of hers. She and April get along great, they’re thick as thieves, but she grates on me after too long. She’s so bright and sunny; almost to a fault. People say that April is, too, and that’s not necessarily wrong - but she has many more layers than that. She assures me that Izzie does, too, I just don’t know her well enough to see them. I take her word for it.

“Is it pink?” I ask.

“Pink,” she says. “Jackson, no. It’s black. It has the high neckline, no sleeves?”

“I’m liking the no sleeves part,” I say, and she swats me which makes Peyton laugh.

“I have a surgery today that goes right through lunch,” she says, getting up after leaving her plate nearly full. I reach across and stab some eggs with my fork, taking them for myself while depositing the strawberries onto Peyton’s tray. She slams an open palm down on them instantly and shoves them into her mouth - one of the only fruits we can get her to eat so far. “So, I’ll miss you.”

“Damn,” I say, and she walks around the side of the table to wrap her arms around my neck. She bends at the waist, turns her head, and kisses my cheek over and over again until I turn and give her my lips. Then, she smiles and holds the sides of my face to kiss me softly, eyes closed as we linger near each other.

“I’m trying to make up for it,” she says, trailing a finger through my beard. “Is it working?”

“A little,” I say. “I need more.”

She giggles and holds tighter around my neck, smiling against my mouth as she kisses me again. She tugs on my hair a little bit and I grab her waist, yanking her closer just where I like her, then slap her ass lightly.

“Hey,” she whispers, one hand flat on the side of my face.

“Hay’s for horses, grass is much cheaper,” I say, which makes her pull away and roll her eyes hard. She hates my dad jokes. “Not even gonna acknowledge it?” I call as she takes her plate to the sink. “No? Nothin’?”

“Nothing,” she says, fighting a smirk. “Come on. Get your stuff, or we’re gonna be late.”

…

We drop Peyton off at daycare, but not without a fight. And just my luck, on the way to the attendings’ lounge, we run right into my best friend in the world, Izzie Stevens.

“April!” she calls, acknowledging my wife only, as if I’m not even there. Then, realizing it, she throws me in as an afterthought. “Jackson. Hey.”

“Hey, Iz!” April says, very excited. They give each other a quick hug and there’s a moment where Izzie silently wonders if she should extend the same congeniality to me. Luckily, she doesn’t. I’m not a hugger. I just happen to be married to one, so people tend to assume.

“Where’s my little Peanut?” Izzie asks, looking around as if we might be hiding her. “I haven’t seen that face in so long.”

“We just dropped her off at daycare,” April says. “She barely even cried today. I almost missed it. I feel like she’s not even gonna care when we drop her with the sitter tonight for the party.”

“Oh, don’t even,” Izzie says.

“What, don’t even?” April asks.

“The _party_ ,” she says, waving a hand. “I’m stressed about it already.”

“What’s to be stressed about?” I ask, trying to insert myself.

Izzie gives me a look, and April does too. The looks are vastly different, though. Izzie wants me to fuck off, and April is actually considering my question.

“Alex is my ex?” she says. “You know that.”

“But you’re with O’Malley now, anyway,” I say, confused. “Why’s it matter?”

“Why’s it matter,” Izzie mumbles in response. “It’s awkward. I don’t know if I even wanna go.”

“What?” April says. “No. Come on. You got that striped dress. It looks awesome on you!”

“I can just return it…” Izzie says, shaking her head. “I kept the tags on. I don’t know… how weird is it to be at your ex’s engagement party?”

“Not weird at all, I assure you,” April says. “You guys are friends.”

Izzie makes a disgruntled sound.

“Friendly, at least,” April says. “Please come? I’ll be there. Jackson will be there.”

Izzie looks at me. I look back and know that we’re thinking the same thing. We couldn’t give a shit if the other’s there, but we’re both glad for April’s presence.

“Will George come with you?” April asks.

“Yeah,” Izzie says. “He planned on it.”

“See, then it’ll be fine. Right, babe?” April looks at me. “It’ll be fine.”

“Should be all good,” I say, shrugging. “If you feel weird, I don’t know. Just leave, then.”

“Jackson,” April says, narrowing her eyes.

“What?” I say.

“He’s right,” Izzie says. “I’m gonna avoid Jo and Alex like the plague, drop off the gift, and go.”

“It might not even be bad,” April says. “Don’t plan a getaway yet. Just come and see. We’ll make up an excuse for you if you need us to.”

Izzie smiles, relieved. “Okay,” she says. “I do look bangin’ in that dress.” She laughs, then glances at the surgical board. “I gotta go. I have to meet Teddy for a double bypass.”

We wave her goodbye then continue down the hallway, and April links her arm through mine. “Thank you,” she says sweetly, looking up with a soft smile on her lips.

I tuck a strand of flyaway hair behind her ear. “What for?” I ask.

“For being nice,” she says. “I know she’s not your favorite person, but it means a lot that you try with her.”

“Well, yeah,” I say, slinging an arm around her shoulder and jostling her a bit. “Sometimes I can refrain from being a total ass.”

“I like you when you do that,” she says, bumping me with her side.

“How about when I don’t?”

She pretends to zip her lips, then giggles. As she does, I let my hand slip lower and tap her on the ass, which I earn an elbow in the ribs for. I’m just about to start tickling her and probably get scolded when someone calls April’s name.

“April!”

She and I both turn around at the same time and catch sight of the source. My skin instantly bristles when I see Vince Michaels approaching with a clipboard in hand, looking sickeningly eager.

“Hey!”

“Seriously…” I grumble, and don’t do anything to remove my arm from my wife’s shoulders. She doesn’t wriggle away, either, and I’m glad. When Vince gets close enough, he doesn’t even bother to look at me. All he sees is her.

“April, hey,” he says.

I clear my throat. “That’s Dr. Kepner to you,” I say, voice firm and low. If I’m not mistaken, she inches a bit closer to me. I live for it, in a totally non-alpha male, non-chauvinistic way.

“Dr. Kepner,” he corrects, and I feel some sort of satisfaction. Not much, because his eyes are still on her, but a little. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m being a possessive prick, I don’t know. “You straightened your hair today. It looks nice.”

April half-smiles. It looks genuine, but I know it’s not. Because I know her backwards and forwards. She touches her hair and looks at it herself, as if she’s noticing for the first time.

“Thanks, Vince,” she says. “I did straighten it today.”

He stares for a beat longer, eyes shining. I want to kick him in the balls repeatedly.

“I like it,” he says.

She grins curtly again and says, “Thank you.”

“Have a nice day,” I grunt, and his eyes flit to me for a split second before he directs them at the floor. He doesn’t offer any form of goodbye before walking away with his head ducked low and clipboard pulled to his chest, footsteps short and calculated. “Fuckin’ stalker,” I mutter.

“Jackson,” April scolds, forehead creased.

“Please don’t ‘Jackson’ me,” I say. “It’s no wonder he’s obsessed with you.”

“What are you talking about?” she says, looking up at me with narrowed eyes. My arm is still around her shoulders. I might be pissed, but I’m not an asshole.

“You’re too nice to that fucker,” I say. “He’s slimy. He wants you, it’s so fucking obvious. And you’re over here leading him on, letting him talk about your hair at work.”

“Honestly!” she says, pitch of her voice rising. “You have no faith in me. He’s harmless, Jackson. I’m being nice because that’s who I am. I’m sorry if you don’t understand, but you can’t pee on my leg every time he comes around. I thought you were past this.”

“I’d be past it if it were over,” I say. “You’re my wife. What am I supposed to do, stand here and let him flirt with you?”

“It’s not about you ‘letting’ anything,” she says. “Come on, Jackson. Put it away. Everyone knows it’s big.”

If we weren’t arguing, I’d turn that into a joke and go further with it. But instead, all I do is frown and shake my head. “Whatever,” I say.

“Be pissed all you want,” she says. “It doesn’t mean anything. He’s a damn intern, Jackson. Not Brad Pitt.”

“Not sure he’s aware of that.”

“Oh, enough,” she says, then rolls her eyes. “I have patients, alright? I have to get changed. You go do whatever you do. I plan on actually getting some work done today.”

And, with that, she unwinds herself from me and storms into the lounge to change. I’m pissed, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t watch her ass as she stalked off.

…

When April meets me at the door at the end of the day, she has the diaper bag slung over one shoulder with Peyton asleep in her arms. She’s bouncing the baby slightly, patting her back with her lips pressed against Peyton’s spiral curls.

“Hey,” she says, eyes on me, lips moving against the baby’s head.

“Hi,” I respond. “Ready to go?”

She nods, and we walk through the parking lot together. Without speaking, I take the heavy diaper bag and hold it myself, and she doesn’t put up a fight. And even though we’re technically still in a disagreement from earlier, our hands find each other instinctively so we can entwine our fingers together on the way to the car.

After April buckles Peyton into the car seat, the baby’s head stays lolled to one side as she’s fast asleep.

“Got her?” I ask, peeking at the both of them as April gets her settled.

“Yeah, she’s good,” she mutters, then comes around to sit in the passenger’s seat.

When we get home, we grab the same things - I take the bag, she takes the baby. It’s what we always do. I unlock the front door and April heads down the hall without taking her shoes off, presumably to lay the baby down. It’s a bit later than usual, she might as well. It’ll make it easier for us to leave when the babysitter gets here.

When April comes into our bedroom, I’m in the midst of changing for the party. I feel the tension drifting through the room, stemming from her, and I can only assume I’m putting off the same energy. But I know I have to go first.

“I don’t wanna fight,” I say, shrugging into my shirt and starting from the bottom to button it up. “I was an ass earlier. I’m sorry.”

She pouts out her lower lip, and her expression shows in her eyebrows. “You were,” she says. “But I’m sorry, too.”

“What’re you sorry for?” I ask, smiling, still buttoning.

“I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head. “Being too nice, like you said.” She glances at my hands and gives me a quick smile. “Here, honey. You’re lopsided.”

She replaces my fingers with hers and unbuttons the shirt to start again. When her cool touch reaches my neck, she drags the pads of her fingers across my throat and leans forward to kiss me softly.

“I love you,” she says. “Even when you’re an ass.”

“Especially then,” I murmur, chuckling.

“Yeah, sure,” she says, and shoves my chest lightly. “Okay. I gotta get ready.”

I leave the closet and tuck in my shirt in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth before going to check on the baby briefly.

“Boo,” April calls from our room. “Didn’t you want me to look at your eyebrows?

I smirk to myself and go back to the bathroom where she’s standing with tweezers. I’m not necessarily a vain man, but I take pride in my appearance and she knows this. So, with her help, I never let my eyebrows get too heinous. I don’t wax or shape them, but when they get a little unruly, April will do some tweezing work.

“You look amazing,” I say, eyes drifting up and down her body. The dress has a high neckline and isn’t skin-tight, but it flows down her form perfectly and lands at mid-thigh. “Damn.”

“Thanks,” she says, and does a twirl so the skirt billows just slightly. “I thought you’d like it.”

“I do,” I say. “Very much.”

I sit on the counter between our sinks and she stands between my knees. I close my eyes and try not to flinch as she plucks the tiny hairs, clicking the tweezers between rounds. When she’s finished, she gives me a quick peck on the forehead and I open my eyes with my hands on her waist.

“Much better,” she says. “No unibrow.”

“Let’s take a look at yours, cro-magnon,” I say, and yank her closer by the hips.

“Shut up,” she says, and spins out of my grip. “I did mine earlier this week.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rings with the arrival of the babysitter, Vivian. April goes to answer the door while I put my shoes on, and I throw Vivian a wave once she comes inside.

“She’s already down,” April says, referencing Peyton. “But I doubt she’ll sleep through the night. When she wakes up, just go ahead and change her into PJs. I didn’t do it earlier because I didn’t want to wake her up. She might be fussy, her routine’s a little off, but…” She laughs cordially. “You know her. There’s breastmilk in the fridge if it comes to that, but we’re trying to get her on regular milk now, so try that first.”

She rambles on and on over things she’s told Vivian a thousand times, and I can’t help but smile as I listen to the rise and fall of her voice. The babysitter lets her talk, nodding intermittently, until I come over and skim a hand across April’s lower back.

“She’s got it, babe,” I say. “Shoes. We’re gonna be late.”

“Right,” she says, then looks to Vivian. “Sorry.”

…

We get to the house with the bottle of wine we picked last week, an expensive one at that. April holds it while I knock on the door, and Jo answers looking breathless and happy.

“Guys!” she says. “Come in. You’re just in time. Everyone just started getting here.”

“Great,” April says. “This is for you, by the way.”

“Ooh, red,” Jo says. “I love red. Thank you.”

April insisted we probably didn’t need to pay upwards of $150 on wine for Jo and Alex because they aren’t those kinds of people, but I argued that we did. Even if they don’t appreciate the brand or the reputation, they’ll appreciate the way it tastes. Everyone deserves nice things, whether they appreciate them deeply or not.

“Go on in, make yourself comfortable! Do you want a tour? I can give you a tour. Just let me find a place to put this down. Oh, hi, Stephanie!”

“Jo, it’s fine,” April says. “We can poke around on our own. You worry about the party. Don’t even think about us.”

She shoots my wife an appreciative smile. “Thanks,” she says. “Have fun. There’s food and drinks in the kitchen, and mostly everyone’s gathered in the living room.”

We nod, and I take April’s waist as we walk through the house and check it out. “It’s a nice place,” she says, returning the favor and resting her arm on the small of my back.

“It’s cozy,” I say. “Homey.”

“I can totally see them with a family here.”

“Don’t say that around Stevens.”

April snorts. “Yeah, no. I won’t.”

We stop in the kitchen before going into the living room with a beer for me and a generous glass of white wine for April. She doesn’t drink much anymore after Peyton, though, so she’s become a bit of a lightweight.

“To not nursing tonight,” she says, and clinks her goblet against the lip of my beer bottle.

“Cheers,” I say, then take a sip. As I’m swallowing, I meet Mark Sloan’s eyes across the room and he comes over with a big smile on his face.

“Avery,” he says. “Glad you could make it. This party was gonna be lame without you.” He looks pointedly at April. “And you, Mrs. Kepner-Avery. You look stunning.”

She smiles demurely. “Thanks, Mark. Where’s Lexie?”

He nods behind us, and April turns to see her friend approaching with two beer bottles. She stretches her arms out for a hug and they embrace, squeezing each other for a long moment and rocking back and forth as if they don’t see each other almost every day.

“Should we?” Mark asks, eyebrows up, hands out.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Gonna pass.”

“You made it!” April shrills. “How did it go with Poppy and the new sitter?”

Mark and Lexie have a baby, too. She’s six months younger than Peyton, with separation anxiety issues through the roof. If Peyton is bad, she’s the worst. The bags under Lexie’s eyes tell me the handoff wasn’t great.

“Uh, it happened. That’s what matters,” she laughs. “She just texted saying she got her to sleep, which is like a new record. So, maybe this one will work out.”

“Hopefully,” April says.

“Luckily Pey was asleep when Vivian came by,” I say. “We got off easy.”

“Fuck you,” Mark says, laughing and shaking his head.

We all laugh and sit down on the couch nearby, which isn’t exactly cut out for four people - so April ends up on my lap, more or less. I hold the dip of her waist with one hand and she leans against me, smelling like sweet wine and light perfume. I resist the urge to bury my face in her neck and kiss her, not because I’m ashamed, but because it would embarrass her. I can practically picture the blush that would shade her skin.

On her second glass of wine, she looks around during a lull in conversation. “You guys seen Izzie?” she asks, eyebrows furrowing a bit.

“Maybe she decided not to come,” I say, patting her hip surely.

“Let me text her,” April says, and pulls out her phone to quickly type a message.

She goes to work at the keyboard, and hovering over her shoulder I see that Izzie starts typing a reply almost immediately. In response to April’s question of ‘where are you?’ she answers ‘outside. Be just a min.’

“She’s coming,” April says, craning her neck to watch the door. When Izzie appears, April catches her eye immediately and climbs off my lap to give her a hug. “Hey!” she says. I feel the cold draft with the absence of her body, and I’m less than amused by it. “You made it!”

“Yeah, finally,” Izzie says. “I was out in the car contemplating life for like, ever.”

“Where’s George?” April asks.

“He’s on-call tonight. He picked up a shift. I said it was fine, because like, what could he do? But still. I don’t think I’ll stay long. You guys looked like you were having fun.”

“No, stay,” April says, and she sways a bit on her feet. I’m starting to see the effects of the wine. “Have a drink!”

“I shouldn’t,” Izzie says, eyes darting this way and that probably in search of the guests of honor. I can’t help but feel a little bad. She’s been put in a really awkward situation, and April seems to be the only one on her side.

“Stevens, sit,” I say, standing. “Let me grab you something. What’re you having?”

She looks at me with surprise. We’re never warm to each other. It’s honestly throwing me off just as much, but I don’t show it.

“Jackson, you don’t have to,” she says. “Seriously. I should just go.”

“Sit,” I say. “You were invited, you’re allowed to be here. Take my spot. Wine or beer?”

She blinks hard, lowering herself onto the couch slowly like there might be a trap set. “I… uh… beer, I guess,” she says. “Thanks.”

April takes my wrist gently and looks at me with warm eyes. It might not be easy to be nice to her friend, but it’s worth it for looks like that.

I come back, give Izzie her drink, and sit on the arm of the couch with April’s hand on my thigh. The five of us fall into easy conversation about things other than work, and April downs her third glass of wine. She laughs easier and louder, just like she always does when she’s a little past the point of tipsy.

A bit later, her hand starts moving up my thigh and close to dangerous territory. She’s involved in the conversation so I have no reason to believe it’s purposeful, but when I shift and she finds her way back, I know it is. I hold her fingers and keep them still, then watch her smile as she tells Izzie about the new show we’re watching.

“Excuse me,” she says, a few moments later. She stands and wavers a bit, so I reach out with one hand to steady her. “I need use the ladies’ room.” She takes a few steps past the couch and looks back at me over her shoulder. “Can you help me find it, Jackson?” she asks, blinking innocently.

I know better than anyone what this means, and I can’t believe she wants to do it during such an intimate gathering. I’m not one to turn her down, though. Public sex isn’t necessarily a kink of ours, but it’s something we do once in a while.

“Sure,” I say, then wrap an arm around her shoulders as we exit the living room and head into the hall. Everyone’s eyes are on us as we leave, but I don’t care. “You’re feeling bold tonight, aren’t you?” I ask, once it’s quieter.

“Mm-hmm,” she says, pushing open doors until she finds what she’s looking for. “Guest bedroom,” she says. “Do you want to?”

“Of course I do,” I say, then pull her inside and shut the door tight behind us.

“Lock it, lock it,” she says, taking off her heels but not her dress.

I turn the little lock and then grab her waist, devouring her lips immediately. She tastes like strong wine and desire, and the lust I feel gathers between my thighs and hardens against her when she rubs against it.

“Shit,” she says, skimming one hand down my torso to grab the bulge. “I really don’t wanna be interrupted.”

“Me, neither,” I say. “So, come on.”

She giggles when I toss her onto the bed, bouncing once as her knees bend. She crab-walks backwards and tempts me with her eyes, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth seductively at the same time.

“Come and get me,” she says.

Instead of overlapping her body and ravishing her, I make room for myself on the bed and lie flat on my back. She looks at me with confusion until I pull her over by the wrist, situate her to straddle me, and say, “Sit on my face.”

Her lips part as she gasps softly, licking the lower one with arousal. With a lift of either knee she gets out of her underwear, then shuffles forward with her skirt hitched around her waist. I grab her hips and adjust myself, then pull so she’s flush against my face.

I start slow, knowing just how to work her up. She grips the headboard in front of her and leans forward, hips undulating at a gentle rhythm to begin. I hold her thighs and open my mouth wide, running my tongue over her lips and letting it disappear inside her heat. She’s throbbing, pulsating with energy, and I’ll make sure she gets the turnout she wants.

When she sits on my face, I don’t use my fingers. I use my lips, tongue and teeth only, which makes it a challenge of sorts. April’s body isn’t a machine where you find the button and get what you want. It’s complex and ever-changing, especially since having the baby. Sometimes she likes it rough, sometimes she doesn’t. Sometimes an orgasm is easy to achieve, and sometimes - regretfully - she has to help me. Not because I’m unskilled, but because she knows her body better than anyone else. That’s the way it should be, but I still pride myself in being second-best.

But tonight, right now, she’s so turned on that my breath alone against her core almost does it. I bring my hands around to grab two handfuls of her ass and squeeze tight, and she whimpers a bit from the contact.

When her hips start moving faster, essentially fucking my face, I use my teeth. I turn my head to the side and bite her inner thighs hard, sucking on the skin roughly until I pull away with a ‘pop!’ April moans, her voice breaking in the middle, as she lets her head fall while her hips keep working.

As she gets closer, I become more and more turned on, too. Seeing my wife in such a high state of arousal and knowing that I did it to her is unlike anything else in this world. And seeing her in this dominant position when she tends to lean towards submissive in bed, it’s refreshing and hot as fuck.

“I’m almost there,” she whisper-whines, arching her back and throwing her head to one side. “Oh, fuck, Jackson.”

“Come on,” I murmur, then slap her ass hard. I keep it in one hand afterwards, digging the pads of my fingers in, and use the other to undo my belt and start stroking myself to the rhythm she’s established.

She goes at me even harder, scooping her hips against my tongue and nose, searching for the friction that will send her over the edge. When she finally finds it, I hold her ass with both hands as she jerks forward, twitching and groaning as her body tenses before crumbling.

“Shit,” she hisses, pushing mussed-up hair out of her eyes. “God, Jackson, that felt good.”

She looks down at me, knees still next to my ears, and I smile before kissing the inside of her leg. She lets her skirt fall as she scoots back onto my chest, then lower to grab her underwear and slide back into them. She stands up off the bed, and I assume we’re done here and stand as well.

But, surprising me, April sinks to her knees and undoes the belt I had just done back up. My erection is still going strong inside my pants, I didn’t get a chance to finish anything, and when she looks up at me through her eyelashes I know she plans on doing it for me.

I make quick work of getting my pants around my knees, then grab a fistful of her hair at the base of her skull. She hums against me, chuckling softly, and sinks lower onto her knees to bob her head back and forth with her tongue wrapped around the underside of my dick.

“Yes, babe,” I groan, fingers tightening in her hair. “Fuck.”  

She looks up again, a smile in her eyes, and pumps with her fist what she can’t reach with her mouth. She pulls away for a moment to catch her breath, and a long string of saliva and pre-come stays intact between her lips and the head of my dick. I use my free hand to swipe it with my thumb and dip it into her mouth - she sucks it off, never breaking eye contact - then giggles.

She does amazing work with her tongue, and when I come a few moments later she doesn’t shy away. She swallows what she can, and what’s left over she wipes away with the back of her hand and looks up at me, waiting for validation, smiling proudly because she knows the quality of work she does.

“That face,” I say, shaking my head lightly.

Her eyes shine when I help her to her feet. “Your favorite face,” she says, drunkenly swaying. The alcohol seems to have taken even more of a hold on her.

“We should get back out there,” I say. “Everyone’s gonna give us shit.”

“Mmm…” she says, running a hand down the middle line of buttons on my chest. “Do we have to…?”

“You’re such a horny drunk,” I say, then wrap a solid arm around the small of her back to lead us out of the room.

As we head into the hallway, I do my best in fixing my rumpled clothes. April doesn’t even try to smooth down her hair, so I do it for her while she walks beside me. We aren’t exactly inconspicuous, but at least I tried to make us presentable.

April goes back into the living room and I make my way into the kitchen to grab some water. She needs to sober up a little or else she’ll start acting like a fool, and this is the best way to do it. I get a few snacks, too. Some food in her system will help.

As I’m gathering everything, I hear laughter from the living room and Alex say, ‘look what the cat dragged in’ presumably to my wife. I laugh softly and go rejoin them, finding April standing near the couch, rolling her eyes at our friends.

“Here, babe,” I say, handing her a water bottle. “This, too.” It’s a mini-quiche, cheese and broccoli. Her favorite.

“Ooh, thanks boo,” she says, then kisses my cheek. The scent of the wine on her has lasted, but I can still detect perfume laced underneath, Rochas Femme, that I buy for her every birthday.

I rest one hand on her opposite shoulder while she eats and drinks, then spot someone from across the room who I really hoped I wouldn’t see. I don’t know why he’s here, but lingering in the doorway stands Vince Michaels, looking awkward and out-of-place.

I roll my eyes openly, and Izzie catches me. She follows my eyes and sees the intern, too, but doesn’t say anything. I get there first.

“Bitsy, do you wanna get going?” I ask softly, so not to attract the attention of the group. It’s not that I want to keep her from Michaels, but being around him makes me uncomfortable. I never know what he’s going to say, or how I’ll react. I don’t want to make this a thing. Removing the two of us from the equation is the best option.

“What?” she says, mouth half-full with quiche. “No. I’m having fun. Let’s stay.”

I’m never one to strong-arm her or force decisions because we’re a couple. “Are you sure?” I ask. It’s the best I can do. I really don’t want to be here, but I also don’t want a fight.

“Yeah,” she says, then gasps with excitement. “We should play a game!”

…

While the group of us gather around to play Cards Against Humanity, I lose sight of Vince. My head isn’t in the game at all, it’s completely elsewhere, and I start to wonder if I hallucinated him. I try and catch Alex’s eye to ask if he invited the interns, but he’s enjoying the game too much. Everyone is, actually, except for me, which makes me feel shitty. I don’t want to be the wet blanket of the group - that’s not fair to April or myself, really. So, I try and forget about it. Everyone I love is right in front of me, and I don’t need to worry about a stupid intern.

After we finish the first round and April has entertained everyone by throwing out the dirtiest, most foul cards, she can barely catch her breath she’s laughing so hard.

“Oh, god,” she sputters, leaning forward onto the coffee table. I can’t help my smile. She’s adorable when she’s drunk. “I have to pee. I’ll be right back.”

Taking a break from the game, the rest of us chat amongst ourselves while regathering the cards to start again. They’re shuffled and dealt in a few minutes, and we all sit around waiting for April to come back - she’s been gone much longer than it would take to pee.

“Did she get lost?” Lexie asks.

“The place isn’t that big,” Alex quips. “But maybe you should go look for her. She’s drunk off her ass.”

“She better not have accidentally peed in a closet,” Jo laughs.

I snort and get to my feet. But just as I stand, April comes around the corner. A smile sneaks onto my face, ready to welcome her back, but her expression doesn’t mirror mine. Her eyes are clouded, skin tone ashen, lips turned into a frown.

“Y’alright?” I ask, extending an arm.

She meets my eyes quickly, then darts them away. Something is up. I can feel it.

“Babe, you okay?” I ask again.

“Yeah,” she says, and her voice sounds completely different than it did just moments ago. There’s no lighthearted, drunken lilt in it anymore. Now, she sounds worse than sober - her tone is raspy and quiet, barely anything at all.

“You sure?” I say.

She presses her lips together and wrings her hands. I look at them right away, they’re a dead giveaway as to when something is bothering her. She always clasps her hands together and messes with her wedding ring when she’s uncomfortable.

“Yeah,” she says again, and when she looks at me, her eyes are glassy. “Can we go home?"


	3. Chapter 3

**APRIL**

I’m a little unsteady on my feet as I make my way out of the living room and towards the bathroom. I run one hand along the wall, giggling to myself over nothing, and hope I find it soon. I really have to go.

I sing to myself under my breath, counting my steps down the hallway. Jo and Alex haven’t put up many pictures yet, but what they do have is cute. There’s one of them by Buckingham fountain, at a brewery downtown, and a silly selfie in the car. I pause for a moment to look at the pictures, then return to my quest. 

When the bathroom is in sight, I hurry up and my heels click on the hardwood floor. I pass the doorway and realize the light is already on, then notice I’m not alone in the small room. 

“Oh, sorry,” I say, laughing. “Didn’t know someone was in here. I can wait!” 

I make eye contact with Vince Michaels as I back out of the bathroom, waving for some reason. My body is wobbly and out of my control, a lot like Jell-O at the moment. That’s what Jackson always compares me to when I get drunk; I get all floppy. 

“No, it’s okay,” he says, smiling openly. “I’m finished.” He takes a few steps forward, but doesn’t exit the bathroom. Now, we’re both trapped in the doorway, inches apart from each other. 

“Oops,” I say, giggling nervously. My face is hot now, and I can’t remember if it was before. It’s not rare for me to get flushed when I’m drunk, but I think this has more to do with proximity. He’s very close to me, and I have nowhere to move. 

“You look amazing tonight,” he says. 

“Oh,” I say, taken aback by his tone. “Um, thank you. I got this from Nordstrom with Izzie, it was on sale! I was so excited. I love finding sales. It’s like, better than sex.” 

I stop talking immediately after that last part tumbles out, knowing I’ve gone too far. I can’t help my loose lips. I shouldn’t have had so many glasses of wine - I totally lost count. Three, maybe four?

“Um,” I say, clearing my throat. “So, yeah.”

“The perfume you’re wearing is delicious,” he says, keeping heavy eye contact. “Wow.” 

I bite the inside of my lip, eyebrows furrowing. “Yeah,” I say. “Jackson… he buys it for me every birthday. It’s kind of like, his thing. Our thing.” 

“Your thing, huh,” he continues. 

“Yep,” I say, attempting to step back before running into the door jamb with my heel. “Ow,” I mutter, then pick my head up to look straight head. “Pretty shower, huh?” I say, filling the awkward, staticky silence. 

“Be a lot prettier with you in it,” he says. 

“Oh, wow,” I say, then turn to walk away. I can hold my pee until later. 

“Hey, wait,” he says, and out of instinct, I turn back to look at him. 

It happens so fast I have no idea how to stop it - when he grabs my upper arm with one hand, my left breast with the other, and kisses me hard and forceful, it’s like I step out of my body and watch it all happen in slow motion. 

My head knocks back against the doorframe and I stumble away, lips bruised and burning. I gasp, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes, as I straighten up and brush myself off. 

“I’m married,” I say, habitually fiddling with the ring around my finger. “That was - you shouldn’t have done that, Vince.” 

“No?” he asks, voice slick. 

“No,” I say, then turn around and resist the urge to cry, hoping he doesn’t follow. Suddenly, my need for the bathroom is gone and all I want to do is leave this party, go home, and shower. I feel disgusting, like his handprints are all over me. I shouldn’t have gone off alone, I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk, I was practically asking for it. Jackson was right - I was too nice to him. Why would he expect anything else from me?

I shake my head and fix my hair, reentering the common area. When I come into view, Jackson smiles one of his bright smiles at me, but I don’t even try to return it. Everything feels wrong - I don’t think my lips are capable of a smile right now. 

He reaches out for me and asks if I’m all right, but I can’t answer. Because I’m not. But we’re in front of all our friends, and I don’t want to make a scene. 

I meet his eyes, though, and try to silently communicate. He picks up on the change of demeanor; of course he does. 

“Babe, you okay?” he asks, prompting me a second time. 

“Yeah,” I say, because there’s nothing else to say. 

“You sure?” He knows that something is up - he doesn’t need to ask that question. It’s obvious enough in itself.

My hands find each other and I wring them - a nervous tic of mine. I always notice, but can never seem to stop. I suppose there could be worse things. 

“Yeah,” I say again, but the tears are imminent. We need to get out of here, now. Who knows where Vince is, and when he might show up again? So, I ask, “Can we go home?”

“Oh,” Jackson says, eyebrows furrowing. Now, he definitely knows something is up. I had just fought him on going home a bit ago, and now I’m the one asking. He’s wondering what changed, and he’ll grill me in the car. I’m not looking forward to it, but staying here would be much worse. “Sure. Of course. Where’d you put your coat?” 

We gather our things, say goodbye to who’s around, and exit the front door without running into Vince again. Jackson winds an arm around the small of my back and I let myself falter to him, leaning against his side with a good portion of my weight. 

“Hey,” he says, stroking my side surely. “I got you. You good? You feeling okay?” 

I shake my head no, knowing that’s the easy way out. I can’t imagine saying aloud what just happened, not now. Not while it’s still so fresh. If I say it, I’ll vomit.

“Are you sick?” he asks. 

I nod and say, “I might be coming down with something.”  

“Aw, bitsy. I’m sorry. Maybe you just need to sleep it off. Let’s get you home.” 

…

When we get home, I shed my shoes and coat immediately without bothering to greet Vivian. I can feel the curious vibes coming from Jackson, but I don’t entertain them. I need to get in the shower and rinse him off.

Standing under the jet as hot water pelts my back, I curve my spine forward and cover my face with my hands. I don’t cry - I don’t feel the need to. I feel used, dirty, and most of all, stupid. I shouldn’t have even been talking to Vince. Jackson was right the whole time. All he wanted was to get in my pants, and I basically let him. How am I supposed to come back from this? 

As I’m scrubbing myself raw with the loofah, lips included, I hear Peyton crying. She doesn’t wake up much during the night anymore, so I can’t help but wonder why she’s awake now. I set my jaw and try to drown out the sound - Jackson can handle her perfectly fine on his own - but nothing works. Even the thundering water doesn’t overpower her cries, now turned into shrieks and wails. 

“Jackson, what is going on?” I call, opening the glass door of the shower to snap at him, wherever he is. 

“I don’t know,” he says, and the crying gets closer. Soon, he appears in the bathroom with Peyton on his hip; she has one fist in her mouth and a distressed look on her face. “She just won’t stop.” 

“Did you try the paci?” I ask, as I push dripping hair out of my face.

“She threw it across the room,” he says, bouncing the baby slightly. 

“Alright,” I say. “I’ll be right out.” 

Though I had wanted to stay in the shower for a good while, I rush through the last of my routine so I can hurry out. I dry off quickly and get into pajamas - a pink, button-up set - and find Jackson in the kitchen with the baby in his arms, still screaming. 

“Here,” I say, reaching for her. 

As Peyton is given to me, her crying doesn’t stop but it does lessen a bit. She grapples with the collar of my shirt and holds on tight, but I can’t give her that tonight. With one glass of wine it would’ve been fine, but I don’t trust the quality of my breastmilk with how much alcohol I had. It hasn’t had enough time to pass through my system. 

“Her molars are coming in,” I say, digging the baby thermometer out of the junk drawer to use it on her. “She has a little fever. She’s in pain. I’ll get the Tylenol.”

Jackson watches as I give Peyton some baby Tylenol, but it doesn’t kick in right away, so she doesn’t stop her fussing. 

“How was Vivian?” I say, hoisting the baby up while I get some pre-pumped milk out of the fridge. 

“Fine,” he says. “But you just breezed right past her. I thought you weren’t feeling too good. I can take the baby, honestly. You should go to bed.” 

“It’s fine, Jackson. I got her,” I say.

“I’m not incapable,” he says. 

“I know that,” I reply, looking at him pointedly as Peyton squalls on my hip. “I didn’t say you were.” 

“Well, you kinda ripped her out of my hands there.”

“You came in the bathroom while I was showering. It looked like you needed help.” I say, exasperated. “You gave her to me.”

He doesn’t have an answer to that, because we both know I’m right. He is a good father, but not always the most confident. When it comes to making decisions and taking action with Peyton, I’m always the one to step first. 

I heat up the breastmilk on the stove in a small pot of water while Jackson lingers and watches. I know what he’s thinking - we shouldn’t be giving this to her anymore. We’re trying to break her of it. 

“It’s a step in the right direction,” I say, shaking the bottle. “At least she’s not nursing.” 

“Yeah.”

I can read his mind. He doesn’t need to say it - it’s still breastmilk. I don’t have an argument for that. She’s fussy, this is what will put her to sleep. And I need her to sleep so I can, too. 

I sit on the couch in the living room and feed Peyton, watching her eyelids droop as soon as she finds a rhythm. She keeps a handful of my shirt, and when that fist loosens, it’s clear she’s comforted and headed back to dreamland. 

“I love you, baby boo,” I whisper, laying her down in the crib. “See you in the morning.” 

I flip on her mobile and the nightlight, then pad into mine and Jackson’s bedroom. He’s still washing his face in the bathroom, but I don’t wait. I turn off the lamp on my side and crawl under the thick covers, turned on my side to face the wall. I close my eyes in attempt to fall asleep, but I’m still awake when he joins me in bed. 

He slides under the covers and at first, I think he’ll leave it at that. I’m wrong, though. He situates a bit, adjusts the way he’s lying, and turns to face my back. 

“Hey,” he whispers through the darkness. “Itsy-bitsy. You okay?” 

I’m not. I’m really not. But I’ll feel better in the morning, and that’s all I can ask for. Right now, sleep is the best option for me, and that won’t happen if we get into a long conversation. So, I close my eyes and try to even out my breathing, hoping he’ll believe that I’m already gone. 

“Oh,” he says softly, mostly to himself. “She’s already sleepin’.” 

He scoots a little closer and kisses the back of my head slowly, then wraps an arm around my waist from behind. It lies heavy over my side, and I relish the feeling of it. Subtly, so he won’t think I’m awake, I press my back against his chest and feel him smile. He kisses the side of my neck and breathes in deeply, tightening that arm around my middle, and we fall asleep cuddled together. 

For the first time, I hope we wake up in the same way. Having him this close makes tonight feel like it never happened. 

…

In the morning, I wake up to kisses. Soft, slow ones to the side of my face, down my neck, and across my sternum where my shirt has pulled away. Jackson’s facial hair tickles my skin as he moves lower, pushing up the loose material of my blousy top to expose my belly and the C-section scar that gave us our child. He ghosts his lips over it, then the tip of his nose, before curling his fingers around the waistband of my shorts in attempts to get them off.

But I can’t let him. I have to tell him what happened last night, and getting eaten out while still keeping that secret is more than duplicitous. I won’t do it, even if the rejection hurts his feelings. The alternative would hurt more. 

“Mmm. Not this morning, boo,” I say, turning to the side to rest on one hip. 

Without opening my eyes, I know he’s frowning. He likes waking me up with a surprise; he likes feeling proud of what he can do to me. And he can do a lot. But it wouldn’t be right to let him, not today. 

“What?” he says, rubbing my thighs with his wide palms. “Why? Still not feeling good?” 

I shake my head, throat constricting. I don’t know why I keep lying. The truth will taste horrible but the lies are making me sick. 

“I thought that would make you feel better,” he says. 

“I wish,” I say. “I’m just not up to it.” 

“Okay,” he says, crawling up so he’s face-level with me. “You gonna stay home today, then?” 

“No,” I say, not willing to push the white lie that far. “I’ll go in.” 

We get ready together, handing off Peyton to each other like always. I’m blowing my hair dry in the bathroom, listening to Jackson talk to Peyton about the dog, as the stone of guilt sits heavy in my gut. This isn’t right. I’ll tell him after work tonight, and I’ll apologize because I know it was my fault. We might fight, but that’s okay. I know I was wrong. 

“Dada, dada, dada, dada!” Peyton cheers from the high chair, banging on the tray with her eyes on Jackson. I smile at her when I come into the room, and see he’s already grinning wildly. 

“I’m her favorite today,” he says proudly. 

“Mama!” she shrieks, chubby fists full of squished strawberries. 

I give Jackson a pointed look. “Don’t be so sure about that. Where’s my doggie?” 

“Porky Pig went outside,” he says. 

“Corky,” I correct lightly. 

He shakes his head, laughing for a reason I know. It still tickles him that I loved wine so much in college that I named my Pomeranian ‘Corky,’ like the cork of a bottle. I wasn’t a lush by any means, but it’s always been one of my favorite vices. After last night, though, I can’t be sure when I’ll be drinking next. I don’t know if I trust myself anymore. 

The baby babbles happily while I get a coat and shoes on her, and Jackson brings the dog back inside. The drive to work is casual and ordinary, the radio plays too many commercials and there’s traffic on Lakeshore Drive. I don’t mind it today, though. The hospital isn’t somewhere I want to be, given who else will be there. He’s the last person I want to run into. 

When we walk inside the main doors heading towards the daycare, everyone’s eyes are on us. It’s not just a feeling, either. It’s a fact. As we pass, people make it a point to look our way and pretend they aren’t staring when we look back. 

“What’s up?” Jackson says, greeting some of them with a high five or a wave. I can’t match his cheerfulness, though, because I’m too paranoid. I don’t know the reason they’re watching us - but it doesn’t feel good. It feels like they know something. 

“Boo,” I say, gripping Jackson’s fingers after we drop the baby off. He’s about to head in a different direction, but I feel insecure with letting him go and going about my work day on my own - no matter how stupid that sounds. 

“Yes, baby,” he says, chipper as ever. More chipper than usual this morning. 

I tip my chin up to look at him, open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I don’t know what I want to say, I can’t figure out how to string the words together because now isn’t the right time. Later, when we’re home and the baby is asleep, I’ll tell him then. I won’t make him go through the work day with the information weighing on his back. 

“Nothing,” I say, then offer a smile. “Have a good day.” 

“You, too,” he says, then gives me a quick kiss with my jaw cradled in his palms. “Text me if you’re free for lunch.” 

“I will,” I say, and he taps my ass when I turn to go the other way. I have to force the smile over my shoulder in return. 

I try and spend as little time as possible around my colleagues today, simply because my head isn’t in the right place. I don’t want to snap at someone undeserving, and I definitely don’t want to run into Vince. I have a feeling he might be trying to run into me, so I disappear in the skills lab in the morning and work through lunch. I don’t come out until it’s time to go home, thanking God I didn’t get paged a single time today. I made sure the ER was fully staffed.

I let my mind go blank while I’m in there. All day, which I never do. I’m always solving some crisis, appeasing someone, or fixing problems that aren’t mine. But now, I’m the one with the problem and I wish I wasn’t. It would be much easier if someone else were in my shoes - like Lexie or Izzie. I would be glad to give them advice about what to do in this situation, and the first thing out of my mouth would’ve been that they needed to come clean right away.

That’s something I’ve already missed the boat on. Every moment I wait is a moment too long, I know that. 

Once I let myself start thinking about it, I can’t stop. I can’t work on my sutures or my concise cuts anymore, I just stare into space for the last few hours of the day. I know I should be doing something productive - that’s what I get paid for - but all I can think about is Vince’s hand on my boob and how hard he grabbed me. I touch it myself as it crosses my mind - gentle, protective - and close my eyes with a frown. His kiss was something forced, it was all for power and control, and it was disgusting. I’m disgusting, and so hardheaded. I wish I’d listened to Jackson - I wish I listened better in general. 

I check my phone at the end of the day to find I have no texts from Jackson or anyone, which is strange and a little disheartening. No one cared that I disappeared all day? No one asked for me? I shake my head and replace my phone in my pocket, standing up to head towards the lounge to change back into my street clothes. 

Once I have my jeans and cardigan back on, I walk to meet my husband. My stomach is in knots, I really don’t want to do this, but it’s better than the alternative - keeping this toxic secret for another night. I can’t do that to myself or to him. I need it off my chest, and he needs to know. 

I see him before he sees me. His back is facing my way, and even from far away I can see the tension in his muscles. He has the baby in his arms, faced over his shoulder, and she squeals when I get a little closer. 

“Hi, Peanut!” I say, making grabby hands at her. 

I smile when I see her in her daddy’s arms, loving the way the two of them look together. She comes to me for comfort, but no one makes either of us feel safer than Jackson. One of my favorite things to see is Daddy and his baby on the couch, Jackson watching a basketball game and cheering silently while Peyton sleeps on his chest. I practically clutch my heart just thinking about the image - I have plenty of pictures to immortalize it, but it never gets old. 

But Jackson’s face when he turns to look at me is quite the opposite of the serene expression he wears while holding his sleepy little girl. Tonight, his eyebrows are set low, eyes guarded, and jaw clenched. Something isn’t right. 

My smile fades, diminishes to a confused, parted-lipped expression instead. My stomach drops further, if possible. I really don’t like this. 

When I get close enough, I take the baby’s hand and kiss it. After, I give Jackson a quick peck on the lips and he kisses me back, but he’s distracted. His heart’s not in it. 

“Hi,” I say, then nod towards the door. “Ready to go?” 

“Yep,” he says tersely, and heads in that direction.

“Want me to take her?” I ask, struggling to keep pace as he strides through the parking lot.

“I got her,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure?” 

“I have her, April,” he says, snapping a bit. 

“Alright,” I say, then stare at my shoes as they cross the pavement - I’m wearing gray canvas TOMS. Not long ago, Jackson bought them for me on a whim after I saw them in the store window. They’re a new design the store had just got in, and I don’t know why I’m thinking about them so in-depth now. The soles of my feet are sweating, maybe that’s why. Or maybe, I don’t want to think about the angry energy wafting from my husband so strongly it’s palpable. That’s probably it.

“I missed you today,” I offer, speaking after a long period of silence. Now, the baby is babbling in her car seat and Jackson is behind the wheel.

“Missed you, too,” he grunts. “Didn’t see you.” 

“I was in the skills lab,” I say. 

I expect him to ask why, I silently beg him to. But he doesn’t. 

“Hmm.” 

“Yeah,” I say, then drum my fingers on my knees. “I didn’t get a text from you, or anything. I would’ve met for lunch, if you wanted.” 

“Got busy,” he says, reversing out of the parking spot we always use to head towards the street. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say, shrugging. 

I don’t know why I’m making it a point to be so breezy. Maybe to make up for the fact that he’s the glaring opposite. I don’t know what to make of it, but I can’t ignore it. He doesn’t get in moods like this with me. With others, it’s common. He can be icy and cold. But with me, he’s always soft. 

“Is it?” he says, and my attention flips over instantly.

“What?” I say. 

He shakes his head, scoffing a bit, saying, “Nothing.”

“Jackson, are you okay?” I ask. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Because you really don’t seem like yourself.” 

He scratches the side of his nose and shakes his head roughly. It comes off as more of a jerk of the chin, completely unnatural. “Maybe I’m coming down with something,” he says, somewhat sneering. 

I furrow my eyebrows. “If something’s bothering you, just tell me,” I say. 

He clears his throat. “It can wait,” he says, then darts his eyes to Peyton in the rearview mirror. “We’ll have to talk later.” 

“Just tell me now,” I say, nearly pleading. I don’t like stooping to that level, it’s not like me, but I feel desperate. I have something that needs to break loose, and he’s harboring something. It’s not a good combination. 

“Da da da da da da da da!” Peyton squeal from the back, kicking her legs excitedly with a toy in hand. 

Jackson’s eyes flit to me. “Not now,” he says. 

I stay quiet for the rest of the ride home, stewing over what will happen later. I don’t like anticipating a fight, but I feel one coming on. 

We don’t fight often, but our fights get fierce. We try not to raise our voices anymore now that Peyton’s around, and we do a pretty good job. It’s not like we’re at odds with each other a lot - it’s rare anymore - but when we are, we get heated. We’re very passionate, stubborn people.

We make tacos for dinner, side-by-side, without speaking much. We both talk to the baby in lighthearted tones and sing along to the radio, but we don’t trade conversation between ourselves. While we eat, it’s not much different. I feed the baby little bites that she’ll eat, but not much goes down. She finds it much more amusing to play with. 

So, that means I give her a bottle before laying her down in the crib. I rock in the rocking chair with her cradled in my arms, trying to be as calm as possible. If I act as wired as I feel, she’ll never go down.

“Stay asleep for Mama tonight, baby Peanut,” I say, moving my lips over her downy hair. “Night-night.” 

Her eyelids are already drooping by the time I leave the room, and when I do, I find the kitchen area and living space empty. There’s a light coming from the hall, which means that Jackson is already in our room though it’s barely 8pm. 

I follow the light anyway, and strip off my cardigan as I walk. I find him in the bedroom, sitting on the bed, fully clothed. Not in loungewear yet. 

He picks his head up when I enter the room, and for a moment we simply look at each other and exchange a charged, expectant vibe. I crumple the sleeve of my sweater in my fist, wondering if I should speak first. I don’t have to wonder for long, though, because he gets there before I do. 

“Something you wanna tell me?” he asks, and his tone is as sharp as a dagger. I haven’t heard it sound like that in forever - I can’t remember the last time. 

I breathe a shaky inhale, wondering where he’s coming from. “What are you talking about?” I ask, on edge. Of course I have something to tell him, but how could he know that? 

“How’s Vince?” he says, standing up. 

“What?” I say, voice getting higher. 

“His mustache tickle when you kiss?” Jackson prods. 

“Okay, I get it,” I say, palms up. “You heard. Who told you?” 

His eyes narrow as he looks at me. “You fuck him yet? He any good?” 

“Jackson, okay!” I shrill, fingers spread wide with my hands out towards him. “Stop it. Just stop it! He assaulted me. You don’t need to be so horrible. I was going to tell you, but I-” 

“Didn’t,” he says. “You didn’t tell me. Why is that?” 

“I couldn’t!” I say. “He assaulted me, Jackson, you can’t possibly imagine how that feels. I’m ashamed, it was gross, it was… I don’t know. It was nothing!” 

“It was nothing, but you kept it from me for a full 24 hours,” he says. “I had to hear through a fucking intern whose name I don’t even know. That was great.”

“Why do I feel like you’re not taking me seriously?” I ask. “Didn’t you hear me? It was assault. He forced me. Are you seriously not going to believe a victim?” 

He throws his hands up. “If it was so traumatic, why didn’t you tell me right away?” he bellows.

“Stop yelling,” I say, deliberately lowering my voice. 

“I could’ve done something,” he says. “We were there at the party, so was he. I could’ve found him and-” 

“And what, beat the shit out of him?” I say. “Do you think that would’ve solved anything? All that would’ve done is put a lawsuit in our hands.” 

“I would’ve made sure he never laid his fuckin’ hands on you again,” he growls. “I’m gonna make sure of it anyway, because I’m gonna report his ass to the board. But scaring him shitless would’ve been pretty good, too.”

His words settle in my gut, the fact that he wants to report Vince and create a huge deal over something I’d rather just forget. I can’t imagine looking my coworkers in the face after they know - because everyone will inevitably find out.

“Don’t do that,” I say, clasping my hands together tightly and cracking my knuckles. Fear tightens my chest and dries out my mouth. I chew on my lower lip to try and calm myself, but it doesn’t work. “I don’t want everyone to know.” 

“Everyone already does,” he says. “And they think the story is a lot different than how you’re spinning it.”

“Are you calling me a liar, then?” I ask. “Do you not believe your  _ wife _ over some stupid-ass hospital gossip?” 

“I never said that,” he says. “But what I’m saying is that what he’s telling people is totally different than what you’re telling me.” 

“And you believe me,” I say. 

“I want to,” he says. “But the fact that you waited so long to say anything doesn’t make me feel that good. You lied about the whole being sick shit. You lied right to my face, all through this morning too. Damn, I was about to give you head to make you feel better, and you were lying to me!” 

“I wasn’t lying,” I say. “I just couldn’t… I knew… I don’t know.” 

“You knew what?” he presses. 

“I knew you’d be an asshole about it!” I say, unable to keep it in. 

“Wait,” he says. “So, this guy assaults you, but  _ I’m _ the asshole?” 

“So, now I was assaulted, according to you,” I say. “When it’s convenient.” 

“I never said he didn’t assault you,” Jackson responds. “You’re not listening. What’s fucking new there?”

I can’t help it, I start to cry. The tears fall down my cheeks with fervor, and I do nothing to wipe them away. I’m so angry I can’t see straight - all I could ask for is for him to be on my side through this. I already feel bad enough, and this fight makes things ten times worse. 

The way he’s looking at me is awful, but I see the hurt in his eyes. Those beautiful eyes that I love looking into hold so much pain and contempt that I barely know what to do with it. 

“You kissed him with the lips you put around me?” he says, then grits his teeth. His cheeks bulge because of it. 

“I didn’t kiss him!” I shout, gesturing emphatically with my arms. “You can’t put your huge ass fucking ego away for one second to hear me. I didn’t do anything. He came onto me!” 

He exhales loudly, pressing his lips together while staring at me. 

“If you’re so obsessed with him, why don’t you go suck his cock, Jackson?” I spit, and immediately regret it. I shake my head and say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” 

“Whatever, take your shot at me,” he says. “You already did enough as it is.” 

My lower lip trembles as I think of the words I want to say. “I didn’t wanna tell you ‘cause I felt so gross,” I say. “I was ashamed, I still am. I was drunk off my ass, and you already got pissed at me and told me I was too nice to him. And what happened? I was too nice again. And he did this to me.” 

He swallows hard and his Adam’s apple bobs. “I had to hear this through a bunch of fucking interns,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm. “Do you know how that felt? How degrading?” 

“Do you know how it felt to be taken advantage of in a bathroom?” I all but scream.

His shoulders relax and he folds forward slightly, rubbing his temples with both hands. 

“Why were you keeping it from me?” he says. “I’m your husband. We tell each other everything. It’s my job to protect you, and I didn’t. I really feel like you don’t trust me, April. Did you think it was just going to go away if you didn’t tell me?” 

“Of course I didn’t think that,” I say, crossing my arms. “I was going to tell you tonight. I really was. I didn’t get a chance to, ‘cause-” 

“I heard through a bunch of fucks gossiping about it,” he says. “He’s going around telling people that he’s gonna fuck you, you should know that. I knew from the very beginning. I was right about him the whole time. He wants to be with you and play mommies and daddies and stick his little dick in you!” 

“Why do you have to get so nasty?” I say, voice rising again. 

“Because I’m fucking mad!” he yells. “I’m reporting this guy first thing tomorrow. The only thing that can come out of this is that he loses his job and will never be able to work for another hospital again.” 

My breath freezes once again, thinking of the people he’ll have to go through and the shame I’ll feel because of this. “You don’t have to, though,” I say. “It can just blow over.” 

“So we can watch him stare at your ass every time you walk by?” he says. 

“No… I… I can talk to him, maybe. I just don’t want all that attention, Jackson, you don’t understand.” 

“But you want it from him?” 

“That’s not it at all!” I say. “You really don’t get it!” 

“I do get it,” he says. “I see a solution to the problem, and I plan on fixing it. If he’s out of your life, then what’s left?”

“The fact that everyone will know,” I say. “Everyone’s gonna look at me and think that I’m the person who ruined the intern’s life over a sexual harassment case.” 

“It should be ruined!” Jackson says. “Do you hear yourself?” 

“But everyone’s going to know,” I say.

“Everyone already does, April.” 

I shake my head slowly, taking a step back as I do. “Fuck you,” I say. “Seriously.” As I’m walking backward, I accidentally step on Corky’s tail and wake him up, which causes him to bark fearfully into the open, loud and brash. 

“God, shut him up,” Jackson says. “He’s gonna wake up the baby.” 

“I’m trying,” I say. “He won’t. Corky, come on. That’s enough. It was an accident.” 

“He’s your dog!” Jackson says.

“I’m trying!” I say, then we both hear it at the same time: Peyton’s distressed cry cutting through the tension-thick air. 

“I’ll go,” he says, taking steps towards the door. 

“No,” I say. “It’s fine. I got her.” 

I leave the bedroom first, but before I get far I look back over my shoulder and give him a hard stare. 

“You might wanna set up a bed on the couch,” I say. “You’re not sleeping with me tonight.” 

He clenches his jaw and turns towards the linen closet, presumably to grab extra blankets. I don’t watch him, though. Instead, I go towards the source of the crying and find Peyton standing in her crib, arms outstretched, fussing.

“I’m here,” I say, lifting her out. “Mama’s here. I know. I’m sorry we woke you up. I’m sorry, Peanut. It’ll be okay. I promise, it’ll be just fine. Let’s go back to sleep.” 

I close my eyes with my chin rested atop her head and listen as she calms down. When her body relaxes against my chest, I settle her back down and leave the room a second time, retreating to the bedroom once more. Jackson is already downstairs, and without pulling down the covers on his side, I crawl under my own. 

I turn on my side and face the empty half of the mattress. Usually, at this angle, I’d have a nice view of the hulking form of my husband lying on his back with his arms above his head. But tonight, there’s nothing. 

And because of the nothingness beside me, I know I won’t get very much sleep at all. 


	4. Chapter 4

**JACKSON**   
  
I know I won’t get any sleep tonight.  
  
After April walks away, I gather blankets from the linen closet and trudge to the front room, a flat pillow under my arm. Corky follows, nails tip-tapping on the hardwood floor, and jumps on the couch before I can set any of my stuff down.  
  
“Uh-uh,” I grunt. “No way.”  
  
He looks up at me, brown eyes shining and innocent, and tucks his nose under his fluffy tail. He doesn’t plan on going anywhere unless forcibly removed, that’s pretty clear.  
  
“Damn you,” I mutter under my breath. I’ve never been the biggest fan of this dog and he’s not all that fond of me, but we stomach each other. Sometimes, though, he seems to act in ways that purposefully get under my skin. “Shouldn’t you be with April right now, seeing as I’m not?” I grumble.  
  
Of course, he doesn’t answer. So, I do my best to make a bed with him in the way, then curl my body to create space for the tiny dog once I lay down.  
  
Without a better place to put it, I try and rest my hand on Corky’s side. As soon as I touch him, though, he growls menacingly and I pull my hand back.  
  
“April doesn’t growl at me,” I say, flipping onto my back. “Jesus Christ.”  
  
I close my eyes with annoyance when the licking starts. I wait and wait, but the sound doesn’t stop. I know if I nudge him, I’ll probably end up bitten, so I lie there and endure the awful noise and wait for sleep to come, but it doesn’t.  
  
Because when I close my eyes, all I can picture are Vince’s hands on April’s body. I don’t know the details of how he touched her, and I wonder if that’s better or worse than a play-by-play of what happened. Would I rather imagine it for myself, or know for a fact how things went down? I don’t know. What I’d prefer over anything is if this never occurred at all.  
  
I know I came across like an ass during our fight. I always do; it never fails. I don’t know why, but my thoughts never seem to come out right. I formulate them just fine in my head, and by the time they escape my lips, they’re jumbled up and just plain wrong.  
  
I don’t blame April for what happened at all, but going back through the words I said, I sure made it seem like I did. I probably made her feel like shit. The thought of him touching her made me so irate, I had no control over what I was saying. I really need to get better at that and get a hold of myself. She deserves more than someone who pops off like I do and makes crass, inappropriate comments. She hates those, and I always dredge them up from the filthiest places. I definitely shouldn’t have asked if they’d fucked yet. That was beyond wrong.  
  
I turn over to face the back of the couch and Corky adjusts behind me. He spins in a circle and tucks himself right against my back, nice and cozy. I roll my eyes at the fact that I’m playing the part of the little spoon and let out a big sigh.  
  
I want to talk to her right now, this moment. I can’t lay here with all this stewing inside me and expect to get any rest. But as badly as I want to throw off this quilt and march up the stairs, I know that’s not the right choice. When April gets mad, she needs space, and a night full of just that will make things better in the morning. That’s how it always goes. I can’t crowd her right now; all it’ll do is make things worse.  
  
I toss and turn for the better part of the night as I piece together what I need to tell her. She has to know that I’m on her side, no matter what. There won’t ever be a moment where I don’t back her up, and I should learn to showcase that better. She was scared to tell me about what happened because she thought I wouldn’t be on her side, and I proved her right. She said she knew I would be an asshole, and I was. That’s not the way a good husband acts. That’s not the way a good _anything_ acts.  
  
I don’t know what time it is when I give up my futile mission of sleep and just stare at the ceiling. I huff loudly, which wakes up the dog, and he hops off the couch to skitter towards the sliding glass door.  
  
Jumping at the chance to get up, I go over to let him out. I stand behind the glass while he does his business, leaning against it with one arm over my head, and stare out into the night. I know for a fact that both April and Peyton are sound asleep upstairs, and I wish I was, too. I don’t like feeling separated from my family. I need morning to come. This is the longest night I’ve ever experienced in my life.  
  
When the dog asks to be let back in, I beat him to the couch. I laugh in his face and spread out how I want, but as soon as I close my eyes he hops right up and makes himself comfortable on my stomach.  
  
“Damn you,” I mutter, now unable to flip onto either side. I might as well just resign now.  
  
When the first hint of the sun peeks above the horizon, I pick a snappy Corky up and set him on the floor. He hurries into the kitchen for food, but I’m not worried about that right now. He can wait to eat. I can’t wait to make up with my wife.  
  
Resisting the urge to hurry, I take the stairs slow. When I reach the top, I peek silently into Peyton’s room to find her in her crib, on her stomach, breathing steadily with her lips slack and parted. I smile to myself at how cute she is, then cross the hall to the master bedroom.  
  
When I look inside, April is lying on her half of the bed. She’s still wearing the pink, button-up pajama set, hair down and splayed over the pillow. If I were there, too, it’d be all in my face. I’m used to it at this point.  
  
She’s curled into a ball, which isn’t unusual. In the mornings, I wake up with every limb extended and she’s in the fetal position – most of the time, with her curved spine pressed against my side. I like feeling some part of her body against me, just as a reminder that she’s there. And when it’s her back, I can feel her breathing steadily – in and out, in and out – and the rhythm is soothing.  
  
I love waking up to her eyes. People always rave about the color of mine, but hers are better. Such a deep, mossy green with flecks of yellow and brown; they’re so intricate and interesting, I could get lost in them. And I do, frequently.  
  
I cross the room without making any sound and lift a knee to crawl into bed on my side. The mattress depresses when I put my weight on it and her body leans towards the middle, which causes her to stir. She’s the lightest sleeper I’ve ever known.  
  
She stirs, but isn’t conscious yet. Her head twitches and she makes a soft sound, but nothing more. I scoot closer, propped up by an elbow, and get settled behind her, curling my body around the slope of her back.  
  
“April,” I whisper, trailing gentle fingers down her side. I lean forward and press my lips to the round of her shoulder, and notice her breath hitch. “Itty-bitty, I’m sorry.”  
  
Her inhales and exhales come lighter now. She nestles her cheek against the pillow and adjusts her hips, and I flatten a hand over the one that’s facing up.  
  
“I’m sorry…” I whisper, and kiss her shoulder again over the fabric of her shirt.  
  
“Mmm…” she hums, turning to lie on her back. Her eyes stay closed, though. “Jackson…?”  
  
“Mm-hmm,” I say, pressing my nose into her hair. “Hi, baby. I’m sorry for how I acted last night.”  
  
I pull away to watch her eyes – those beautiful eyes I love – blink open. She stares me in the face with a confused expression, still drifting to the surface.  
  
“Last night,” she murmurs.  
  
“I was an ass,” I say. “It’s hard for me to say what I’m actually thinking. It came out all wrong because I was so mad.”  
  
She makes an affirmative sound before letting me finish.  
  
“But not at you,” I say. “I just took it out on you, and that was my fault. I shouldn’t have done that. I won’t report Vince, if that’s what you want. It happened to you, so you should control it.”  
  
Her eyes are clear and bright now, it doesn’t take her long to wake up. She’s still soft and slow, but her mind is working.  
  
“Thank you,” she says. “And I’m sorry, too. I should’ve told you sooner.”  
  
“I don’t like it when we fight,” I say, face in her neck.  
  
“Me, neither,” she says, running her fingers through my hair. “But you need to work on how you phrase things. You were nasty last night.”  
  
“I know,” I say. “And I’m sorry.”  
  
“I got riled up, too,” she replies. “And heated. So, I’m sorry for that. Let’s try and be better about keeping level heads.”  
  
“I agree,” I say, nodding. “We will.”  
  
She gives me a small smile and cups my jaw in her hands before kissing me. When she pulls away, she looks into my eyes and runs her fingers through my hair before speaking again.  
  
“How’d you sleep?” she asks.  
  
I raise my eyebrows and shut my eyes momentarily. “Didn’t, really,” I say. “The dog hogged the couch all night.”  
  
“I wondered where he was,” she says. “Since he wasn’t here with me.”  
  
“Yeah, the little stalker,” I say. “And he kept growling when I tried to move him.”  
  
“You were on everyone’s shit list last night, apparently,” she giggles, rubbing circles with her thumbs in the middle of my neck.

I kiss her deeply, closing my eyes to get lost in the way her lips feel moving against mine, and drink in the way she smells. There’s always an undertone of perfume, no matter if she’s recently applied it or not. Along with that, there’s Dove soap and something earthy from Lush. She smells so delicious, I could eat her up. I want to.

“Do you forgive me?” I ask, as the snarling pit of wires in my stomach is still there. I want it gone, I want the air between us cleared, and I want to be sure about it.

“Mm-hmm,” she says, eyes still closed as I press my lips to her ear.

I make her gasp when I lick the shell of it, and she shudders as the chills run through her body. I smile to myself, knowing full well just how sensitive her ears are. I can make her wet by doing this alone, and I’m sure she’s on her way there.

“I know that feels good, baby,” I say, talking low and husky with my nose pressed to her temple. While keeping my face where it is, I slip a hand down between her breasts, over the dip of her stomach, and inside the front of her silk shorts.

I’m rewarded as I do so - the front of her cotton underwear is already damp. I smile and kiss her ear, earning a soft whimper for it, and rub the wet spot with two fingers.

“You’re wet,” I say. “So, it’s gotta feel good.”

“It does,” she breathes.

I turn my head a little and capture her earlobe between my teeth, and she whines - high and desperate - then clenches my hand between her thin, but strong, thighs.

“Oh, god,” she moans, eyelashes fluttering.

I suck on her earlobe and sneak inside her underwear, then inside her body. I pump my fingers at the same rate in which my tongue moves, and her breathing hitches and comes shallow as she tries to keep herself together.

“Mm, Jesus,” she sighs, biting down hard on her lower lip.

She worries it with her teeth and turns it white, eyebrows arching as I get her closer and closer. Her heartbeat is strong inside the heat of her body, and as she rattles against me I can’t wait to see the finished product. The sight, sound, and sensation of April having an orgasm never gets old. She’s a masterpiece as it is, but watching her come is otherworldly. And knowing I was the one to make it happen is even better.

I bite the shell of her ear and her breath stops entirely. She grapples for my shoulder and digs her nails in sharply, but I barely feel it because I’m concentrated on something very different. Her inner walls are pulsing and fluttering around my fingers, so close to the end goal, and I know as soon as I rub her clit with my thumb it’ll be the end, but I’m not quite ready for that yet.

“Oh, Jackson,” she whines. “Please, make me. I need to… I need…”

I smirk and kiss her cheek, abandoning the ear that started it all. I move my lips to her jaw, then the side of her neck where her pulse is thrumming like crazy, and close my teeth over the top of her breast that’s spilling upwards because of the way she’s lying.

She moans, arching her back to get me closer to her chest in a way she hasn’t for a while. Her mind is cloudy with the potential of an orgasm, though, and I plan on giving her what she wants. While keeping one hand moving inside her, I hastily unbutton the front of her shirt with the other and yank it to the side. Her nipples are already flushed and erect - I worked them up to that point - and they’re practically begging for attention.

When I get my mouth on the right one, her voice breaks and her back collapses on the mattress again. I drag my tongue over it, drawing circles over the middle, and she holds the back of my head so I won’t go anywhere. I hadn’t planned to, but I like seeing that dominant side of her. She has me right where she wants me, and she won’t let me get away.

I suck hard, pulling almost her entire breast into my mouth, and she lets out a loud cry.

“Shit!” she shrieks, half surprise and half pleasure.

She’s panting when she pushes my head away, and I see that the front of her shirt is now completely soaked with breastmilk. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and laugh, which makes her giggle, too.

“Oops,” I say.

With her mind set on one thing only, she grabs my wrist and tells me what to do with her eyes. I don’t go back for her breast; instead, I whip the covers away and flip her over after stripping her of the pink shorts she had on.

She loses her breath for a minute due to how fast I got her on her stomach, and she looks back to see what I’m doing after propping herself up on both elbows. I straddle her knees without resting my weight down, then lean forward and take two generous handfuls of her ass. I squeeze as hard as I can, and her head falls forward to land on her wrists - it’s not something she’d ever admit out loud, but she loves my hands here.

I rub my thumbs along the lower parts of the cheeks and massage her, shoving her hips down when they lift up. I smile as I kiss the small of her back, then move to the right cheek, where I lick her skin and bite down to shock her.

“Fuck,” she whispers, lifting her head again.

“I love it when you curse,” I say, smacking the side of her ass so it bounces back. She presses her lips together, thighs too, and closes her eyes with the feeling.

When she turns her head to look back at me, her eyes flash. “Only for you,” she says.

The alpha in me comes out - the heady pride over the fact that I’m the only man she’s ever slept with. I’m the only one who’s seen her intimately, been inside of her, made her come in a thousand different ways. We’ve made a life together. No one else can say that - she’s mine. I’m hers. Something about that turns me on like nothing else.

“That’s right, baby,” I say, spreading her cheeks before moving to her hips and yanking them up.

With a surprised sound, she lifts her weight to her knees and arches her back, and I get to see her in one of my favorite ways - horny and ready, just for me.

When I sink inside her, I don’t rush and she doesn’t tell me to. I watch her fingers twist the comforter when I’m buried to the hilt, and feel satisfied because of that. I love the way she feels, too. We’re married - we have sex as much or more than any other married couple would - but I have never gotten used to her. I let myself fall forward to rest my forehead against the middle of her spine, and for a moment we stay unmoving, just soaking everything in.

When I start to move, we find a dual rhythm instantly. It doesn’t take long at all because we know the other’s bodies so well. She lets her head fall and I rub one hand up her back to keep a good grip on her shoulder, one that keeps me grounded as my eyes roll back and the sound of skin against skin drowns out every other thought in my head.

Though she was close before, I come first. I pull her hips flush to mine and shoot off inside her, then wrap my arms around her stomach and overlap her back with my torso. The movement of my hips is erratic and jerky, but I can’t control it while I orgasm with my perfect wife underneath me, breathing heavy and waiting for her own release.

I pull out and she turns onto her back, watching me with an expectant expression. We meet eyes and laugh as she spreads her thighs, and I kiss my way up her legs on my way to get settled between them.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” I say, nuzzling her lower belly. “Have I ever told you that? That you’re so damn beautiful?”

She looks at me, chin to chest, one finger in her mouth. “A few times,” she says.

“I’ll tell you again right now,” I say, pushing her thighs further apart with a flat hand on the inside of each. “You’re beautiful.”

“So are you,” she says, smirking with one hand on my cheek. “And I want nothing more than my beautiful husband to give me some amazing head so I can love him even more.”

“Even more, huh,” I say, kissing her outer lips while feeling her muscles relax. “I don’t know how that’s possible.”

“You’ll show me,” she says, and lets her shoulders and head collapse on the mattress when I open my mouth on her.

There’s remnants of what I left on the inside and outside of her, but I don’t care. I don’t bother to avoid it, because I’m used to tasting both of us mixed together. She is, too. She’s not the only recipient of head after I’ve been inside her - she’s just as much of a giver as I am.

She rubs her palms over her belly while I push my tongue inside her, and drags her nails over my shoulders when I get her close. Her hips move of their own accord - lifting to grind against my face and find that friction - and I let them. I let my head get knocked back and bury my nose and chin just as far as anything else, getting my face completely soaked with the goal of getting her where she wants.

When she comes, she does so loudly. She’s usually always loud, and I love that about her. She squeezes her eyes shut tight so her face crinkles, and her mouth falls open desperately as I suck on her clit with everything I’ve got.

“Look at me,” I say, lifting up for just a moment. “April, open your eyes.”

She does as I say, and the expression within them is hungry and sated at the same time. Her eyelids fight to close while that orgasm ripples through her and her hips jump and jerk, but she keeps them open and trained on my face.

When it’s over, she collapses into a pile of mush, spread-eagle before me. “Shit,” she groans, belly moving with deep inhales and exhales.

I start to kiss my way up her body, but she holds my head with both hands before I can get carried away. She traces my features with her gentle fingers, and her eyes are just as soft.

“Are you memorizing me by heart?” I ask, a lilt in my tone.

She doesn’t smile, but her eyes lift to meet mine in a manner I feel all the way to the tips of my nerves. “I already know you by heart,” she says. “You are inside my heart.”

I lean to kiss her and stay still for a long time, solidifying the bond. “I love you,” I say. “Where do you think of things like that to say?”

“I don’t know,” she says, nosing my cheekbone with her eyes closed. “Tell me you love me again.”

I smile to myself and tuck my face into her neck, dropping benign kisses all over the warm, damp skin. “I love you, April,” I say, then kiss her again. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” she whispers, and by the conviction in her voice I know she means it.

…

The rest of the morning is spent quietly. Peyton is sleepy and lies on our bed in a homemade baby jail consisting of pillows and blankets while April and I get ready, and we don’t exchange much conversation. I don’t feel the need to, and I don’t think she does, either. We just exist alongside each other in a routine manner that feels good.

When we get to the hospital, though, things aren’t quite as calm. Forced back into the environment that holds my greatest enemy at the moment isn’t exactly comforting, especially knowing how April wants me to react to the situation. I promised her I would play it cool, and I have to remind myself of that promise. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter what I feel about what happened, it matters how she feels. It happened to her.

But I can’t get over the fact that he _made_ it happen to her. She didn’t have a choice, but he did. He forced himself on her and now gets to walk around bragging about it. That’s not okay - that’s the furthest thing from okay. Does he just get to continue on living like nothing happened, like he didn’t assault a drunk woman at a party? He won’t suffer any consequences, and that doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t know if it ever will.

I can’t stop thinking of his hands on her like mine had been this morning. Not in the sense of a competition, but in total disbelief. Why would he think that’s something permissible to do? I can touch April, she’s my wife. And even so, if she didn’t want me to, I wouldn’t. It’s common decency that he doesn’t have, and he disrespected the woman I love.

I want nothing more than to beat him into tomorrow. That would give me so much joy. But I know it would send April over the edge, and I can’t do that. I respect her too much.

My mind is spinning a thousand miles per hour and we’ve only taken a few steps into the attendings’ lounge. I’ve gone on autopilot, didn’t even notice that I changed into my scrubs and April did, too. When I come back to earth, she’s clipping on her ID badge and shrugging into her lab coat, ready to go.

“Anything big for today?” she asks.

I shrug. “Rhinoplasty at 10,” I say. “And I think I have a lipo on the board. Slow day.”

“If you get bored, you know where to find me,” she says, giggling.

“Running that ER like that motherfuckin’ boss you are,” I say, pulling her closer by the waist as I try to shove Vince’s smug face out of my head.

“Yep,” she says, singsong. She presses two flat palms against my chest and tips her head up, smiling with low-lidded eyes, the tips of our noses barely touching. “I gotta go,” she whispers.

“Alright,” I say. “Let’s get coffee later, if you can.”

“I’ll text you,” she says.

I wave her goodbye and sit down on the bench to put on my work sneakers. I take a deep breath and tell myself to just have a normal day. Go about things as I always would, and push what happened out of my head. I’m glad we didn’t talk about it any further, but at the same time I almost wanted to. I want to make sure one last time that she’s sure about what she wants - maybe there’s some way we could anonymously report him without any of it ever coming back to her.

I know I can’t suggest that, though, because I wasn’t lying yesterday when I told her that everyone already knows. I heard the interns talking about it, and when they get a hold of gossip, it spreads like syphilis among them and it’s usually equally as nasty. It would be bad enough to have April’s name in their mouths, but the fact that Vince is painting her in such an unflattering light is the worst part. With the way they made it sound, he was telling the story like April had wanted it. I hope they’re not stupid enough to believe that’s the truth.

I sigh when I stand and try to clear my mind. Today will be a good day, I’ll make sure of it. Even if it has to be forced.

…

April and I meet for coffee a bit later, then go our separate ways again. It was a nice little date - we talked about her parents’ surprise party and how her sisters aren’t pulling their weight, which isn’t anything new. We laughed over the fact that no matter how hard she tries, April always trips over the word ‘ornament,’ no matter how easy it seems. I made her say it over and over just to make us both laugh.

So, I leave the cafeteria with a smile on my face and head down the hall to the nurses’ station. I go through a few routine post-ops, check in on my long-term patients, and run into Alex about an hour later. He doesn’t look happy in the slightest - in fact, he looks worried and upset.

“Hey,” I say, eyebrows creasing. “You alright?”

Wrinkles appear on his forehead and he looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. His eyes narrow when he says, “Not really, are you?”

“I… yeah,” I say, confused. “What’s going on?”

He presses his lips together and nods me into a more private space, away from foot traffic in the hall. “I heard about what happened with your wife and Michaels.”

My stomach twists as anxiety ebbs and flows throughout my body. This is exactly what I didn’t want. Intern gossip is fine and doesn’t mean much. No one takes it seriously coming from them. But if it made its way to Alex, an attending like us, that’s detrimental. That’s dangerous.

“It’s not what you think,” I say. “All he’s doing is spreading lies. He came onto her at your party. It was assault. She didn’t-”

“That’s what I heard,” he says. “Dude, he’s gone. He’s fired. Outta here.”

I stand there, shocked and unable to respond for a good minute as I try and process what he said. On one hand, Vince is gone. That’s the best news I’ve heard in a while. But on the other, he’s been reported and the whole hospital knows what went down, which is exactly what April didn’t want. She wanted this to blow over, and I can’t help but wonder if she knows yet.

“I should be the one to tell her,” I say aloud, and Alex nods.

“Yeah.”

“Shit,” I mutter, glancing at the floor. “She’s gonna think it was me.”

“What?”

I look back up to Alex’s face. “She didn’t…” I say, but cut myself off. “It doesn’t matter. Thanks for telling me. I gotta go find April.”

“She’s in the pit,” he says. “Yelling her ass off.”

“Fuck,” I murmur under my breath. If she’s yelling, that means she knows. Yelling means she’s pissed. “I gotta go.”

I hurry towards the pit, even though timing ceased to matter as soon as she found out. Once I get to the first floor, I find her in triage, barking at a nurse who looks perfectly capable of the task at hand.

“April,” I say, coming up behind her. The laces of her trauma gown are tied sloppy and loose, which is never the case.

She flips her head around and looks at me with scrutiny. Recognition flashes across her eyes for a split second, and it changes to guardedness before I can blink.

“Not now, Jackson,” she says, flying past me. “I’m busy.”

“You’re screaming at nurses,” I say. “We should talk.”

“I’m doing my job,” she insists, plucking a clipboard out of an intern’s hand who stares at her for a moment too long. “Why don’t you go do yours?”

“I just need you to listen for a second,” I say.

“You didn’t listen to me, so why should I give you the same courtesy?” she asks, peering through the swinging double doors. “We got an incoming!” she shouts to the room.

“It’s not what it looks like,” I say. “I was surprised, too, I-”

“I don’t wanna hear it right now,” she says.

“You don’t know the half of-”

“What I know is that you went behind my back and did what I deliberately asked you not to do,” she says, then jumps onto a moving stretcher. “Now, I’m gonna have to ask you to get out of my way.”

I step back, fuming, so the gurney doesn’t run me over. If she won’t listen, that’s not my fault, but she doesn’t know the whole story. She refuses to hear me. This is what happens when she gets pissed - she refuses to hear another side.

I let out a loud sound of anger and turn on my heel, walking away from the ER and my hardheaded, petulant-acting wife. I clench my fists and grit my teeth, getting further away from her and feeling more helpless as I do so. All I needed to do was say a handful of words and clear the air, but she wouldn’t even give me that. All the anger from last night is resurfaced, though I promised myself I wouldn’t get to that spot again.

“Damn it,” I curse, staring at the OR board without seeing much of anything.

Now, this will sit with me all day. I’ll be thinking about it until I see her again, and I’ll inevitably be met with icy silence when we meet to pick Peyton up. That’ll be great.

I go through the motions for the rest of the day without focusing on anything. All I can think about is the fight April and I are definitely going to have, unless I can find a way to make her hear me before things can escalate. That might be a possibility, if I start talking fast enough. Everything would be just fine if she gave me thirty seconds to explain the situation earlier.

I try and put it out of my mind, but it doesn’t work. I go through the lipo I had scheduled and find time to finish some charts, and the hospital grows eerily quiet while I concentrate.

When I’m finished, I meander downstairs to hang around the ER, checking to see if April has a free moment. This way, I can just get the confrontation over with and avoid the buildup for later tonight. But I don’t see her - I don’t see anyone I recognize. There are a few residents working with minor injuries on the floor, but no attendings.

“Where is everyone?” I ask a passing nurse.

She gives me a look like I should already know. “They all headed out,” she says. “There was a call from a domestic disturbance downtown. Something about a guy and his wife… I’m not sure. The police are there, too.”

I furrow my eyebrows. “What doctors went?”

“Dr. Hunt, Dr. Kepner, Dr. Altman, Dr. Edwards, and a few of the residents,” she says. “They left a while ago. They should be back pretty soon.”

“Thanks,” I say, absently.

A domestic disturbance? Police activity, too? April does this kind of stuff all the time, so I have no reason to be worried. I’m more curious than anything, but I know it wouldn’t be right to wait around the ER to see the incoming. That’s disrespectful, and the last thing I need to do right now is get in April’s way while she works. She’d have my head on a platter.

So, I walk out of the ER and head to the plastics floor, where I do a roundabout check on all my patients. I have a good number of them, and I’m happy with their recovery. Once I’m finished, about an hour has passed and my stomach is growling again, so I take off my lab coat and set off in the direction of the daycare. I’ll pick up Peyton and we can grab a bite to eat together before I finish up my shift.

I’m lost in my head on the way there, so I practically run into Stephanie in the middle of the hall. Her face is ashen, eyes wide and unblinking, mouth set in a watery frown.

“Whoa,” I say, reaching to steady her. “You okay?”

She swallows hard and doesn’t say anything, but I don’t have time to press the matter before I get a page. I look down at the beeping machine and see that it’s urgent, and I’m needed in OR 2.

“Shit,” I say. “I gotta go.”

I break into a run at the 911 page and scrub in as fast as I can while still being thorough. Izzie is next to me, going through the same routine with dutiful concentration, and Teddy bursts through the door not long after.

“Avery, we need you to treat these chemical burns,” she says. “They’re concentrated on the patient’s chest and arms. She’s in bad shape. Her heart won’t make it if I don’t work on it simultaneously.”

“What the hell happened?” I ask, bumping through the door with my hands in the air.

“Hydrofluoric acid,” Teddy says. “Husband threw it on her.”

“Holy shit,” I say, but know that now isn’t the time to get into the details.

All I need to know is the extent of the burns, the substance used to cause them, and the depth they’ve already reached. Once I know all of that information, I can get to work on mending this woman’s skin that’s warped beyond recognition.

I work with insane focus, and the world around me disappears like it usually does while I’m in the middle of surgery. The only sound that forces me back to the surface is that of the heart monitor beeping erratically, and Teddy’s motions becoming more haphazard and panicked.

“We’re losing her!” she says. “Shit. Her heart can’t take it. Give me the paddles!”

“You can’t shock her,” I say loudly. “You’ll burn her skin right off.”

“Her heart stopped, Avery, now move!” she says, and rubs the paddles together. “Clear!”

Teddy shocks the patient, but the long, deafening beep continues and shrouds the room in a sense of sick knowing. Her skin disintegrates and peels away from where Teddy shocked her, and if I weren’t a doctor I couldn’t bear to look. But I have to.

“Damn it,” she says. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

I take a look at the woman lying on the bed - the chemical burns on her chest, arms, and a bit of her face, and feel something splinter inside. Her husband did this to her - the person who was supposed to love and protect her, build her up, be her partner. He killed her.

I look up at Teddy, who’s standing to the side massaging her temples, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Where’s April?” I ask.

She meets my eyes quickly, then looks away.

“She was at the scene with you,” I say. “Shouldn’t she be in here, too? Was there another patient?”

Teddy shakes her head and closes her eyes. “She’s in OR 1,” she answers.

“So, there was someone else,” I say, taking my gloves off with the idea of going to see April. I can only imagine this has shaken her - she’ll need some support, no matter if we’re fighting or not. “Was it a kid?” I really hope it wasn’t. She’ll be wrecked if it was a kid.

“Jackson,” Teddy says, then leads both myself and Izzie out of the room. “She isn’t operating in OR 1. She’s-”

“What?” I ask, the words tumbling from my mouth all at once. “What are you saying?”

“I need you to stay calm,” she says.

Izzie’s gone completely silent beside me. She doesn’t know what’s going on, either.

“Something happened to her, didn’t it? And you let me operate while knowing that?” I ask.

“You couldn’t do anything,” she says. “You know the rule about family in an OR, it just isn’t possible. We needed you here. This woman needed you.”

“And we lost her!” I say. “What if the same thing’s happening to April right now? What happened to her, Teddy?”

She lets out a loud exhale and sets her jaw in preparation. “He threw it on her, too,” she states, very softly, very firmly.

I can’t compute what she said. I see her mouth continuing to move, but no sound comes out. I try and pick up my feet to run out of the scrub room, but I can’t seem to go anywhere. It’s like I’m cemented to the ground, or my legs weigh a thousand pounds each. I need to get to her, I need to see my wife, but I can’t do a thing.

It’s Izzie’s hand on my arm that sends me rocketing back to consciousness, and I take a huge inhale once it happens. Her grip is cold and clammy, fingers circled around my wrist in a desperate act of solidarity. She doesn’t know what to do next, but I do. I have to go.

I burst out of the room without any heed to either of the women I leave behind, and sprint at a breakneck speed to OR 1. Once I get there, though, it’s empty save for a janitor mopping the floor. I don’t see any blood, but that might just be because she’s done a good job so far.

“Where-” I pant, “When did… did someone… is there a body?”

She looks up, more confused than anything. “They took her to a recovery room,” she says. “What are you talking about, a body?”

“Thanks,” I breathe, and run into the hall yet again. On my way, I run into Stephanie again and realize why she looked so strange earlier - she was there, and she knew. There was no time to tell me because my pager went off. “Where is she?” I demand.

“304,” she says. “She’s sleeping.”

I run to the very end of the hall to Room 304, and come to a complete halt once I arrive. I stand there trying to catch my breath, one hand on the doorframe, and stare in at her.

April is a small person, but she’s never looked as tiny as she does lying in a cloth gown with the covers pulled up to her waist. Her arms are lying comfortably atop it, hands slack and frail-looking. The skin that had been singed and broiled on the woman we lost is untouched and porcelain on April - her arms are fine, along with her chest and neck. The bottom half of her face is clear, too.

The only thing that’s different is her eyes, which I can’t see. There’s a bandage wrapped around them that covers her cheekbones, temples, and forehead, too.

“Oh, god,” I mutter, then rush to her side. I kneel on the floor next to the bed and grasp her hand, bringing it to my lips to kiss it. Her skin is freezing.

“She’s stable,” a voice says, behind me. I turn around and see Mark standing there looking solemn.

“What happened to her?” I ask, still clutching April’s hand.

“The guy went crazy at the scene,” he says. “They were apparently trying to get the wife out while the police detained the husband, but he somehow found a way to get that acid on Kepner, too. He threw it in her face, in her eyes. She…” He clears his throat. “She was in a considerable amount of pain, so we sedated her in the ambulance. Hydrofluoric acid is one of the worst, it-”

“I know,” I snap.

I just worked on clearing it from a dying woman’s skin as he did the same for April a room away. I hadn’t even known. But what could I have done, even if I did?

“She has burns on the skin that’s covered,” he says. “I took care of them as they flushed her eyes out. There’s no way to tell how badly the acid has affected her sight. We’ll know the initial impact in a few hours. It could be nothing at all. After that, it’s just a step-by-step process. But in a little bit, when she wakes up… how her eyes look when the bandages come off will be telling.”

“Okay,” I say, and stroke her skin.

I watch her chest rise and fall as she breathes, and thank the god I’m not sure exists that she’s alive. Her outcome could be much worse. She got acid in her eyes and on her skin, but they cleared it and all she needs now is time. She’ll be fine, back to normal, better than brand new.

“You got her right here,” Mark says, patting me between the shoulder blades. “It’ll be a few hours, but you should be around when she wakes up.”

“I didn’t plan on leaving,” I say.

“I know,” he says softly. “If you need anything, just page me.”

He heads out, but I lift my head before he can get far. “Mark,” I say, and he turns around. “Don’t… don’t tell anyone yet. She wouldn’t want that. Just keep it quiet, alright? She’ll be fine. She won’t want everyone freaking out over her for no reason.”

“I can do that,” he says, with a slow nod. "And Lexie will take care of Peyton tonight." 

I nod in return, thank him, and climb into bed with April. It’s not quite big enough to accommodate both of us comfortably, but the closeness is something I think both of us desperately need. I need that firm reminder that while I might be scared out of my mind, at least she’s breathing next to me.

I tickle her arms for hours, knowing how much she loves it. I bury my face in her neck and breathe in the scent of her, the faint traces of Rochas Femme and the sweetness of her skin. I run my fingers through the ends of her hair and adjust the way it lies around her shoulders, knowing just how she likes it.

I try and sleep, but it doesn’t work. I’m too worried about not being completely present when she wakes up.

It’s the middle of the night when it happens. She stirs, fingers twitching before anything else, then her feet. She situates her legs and makes a sound in the back of her throat, one that seems confused and a bit distressed.

“Hey,” I say, then take her hand. “You’re okay. I’m here. You’re okay.”

Her movements grow quicker, more frantic and worried. She gasps and tries to sit up, but she’s probably in some pain and it doesn’t work too well. Her hands fly to her face to touch the gauze, but she removes them immediately after wincing. The skin underneath is still raw and the nerves are probably exposed. The bandages could probably use a change soon, but not right this moment.

“Jackson,” she says, and feels for me. She turns to the side and grips my upper arm, fingers digging in with fear. “Jackson, I can’t see.”

“You’re alright,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice as low and soothing as I can. “It’s just the bandages. You have bandages over your eyes. They’re helping you heal.”

“But I can’t see anything,” she says, assumably still a bit disoriented from the anesthetic.

“Baby, it’s okay,” I whisper, stroking her hair. “It’s dark, and the gauze is just in the way. Everything is fine, I promise. You got hurt, but you’re okay now. Everything is gonna be fine.”


	5. Chapter 5

**APRIL**

Jackson was a vision on our wedding day. Dressed in a sharp black suit with a vest over a crisp white shirt, he cleaned up perfectly. Not like I didn’t know he could, but he took my breath away as I walked down the aisle that afternoon.

As I got closer, I could see his shining eyes and clasped hands, anticipating my arrival. Everyone’s gaze was on me from the audience, but I only cared that he was looking at me. In that moment, I couldn’t wait to look at him for the rest of our lives. That beautiful face, muscular body, brilliant mind - he was all mine in a gorgeous package. 

We thought our marriage couldn’t get stronger or better - until Peyton came along. The day she was born competes with our wedding day for the best day of both of our lives, and that’s a known fact between us. 

Her face was swollen and pinched with emotion as the doctors pulled her from my body via the incision in my middle, and she cried with ferocity. I was a little delirious - being in labor for 36 hours will do that to you - but once they laid her on my chest, my mind was clear. Her eyes were squinty, but colored a dark blue that would transform into the aquamarine of her father’s. Her arms wriggled their way out of the swaddling blanket and Jackson and I held her hands and kissed each and every one of her tiny fingers. 

When I saw Jackson in the hospital today before I left for the scene, I’d yelled at him. At the very least, I snapped at him. His face was frustrated and upset, pinched and irritated - he’d been trying to tell me something but I refused to listen. It seems stupid now. He was wearing his scrubs and lab coat, and I wonder if he still has them on next to me. I would assume so. 

When I dropped Peyton off at daycare early this morning, she fussed but didn’t throw a fit. She’s been getting better at that, and although her attachment issues were tough to deal with, I almost miss them as they become lesser. I liked knowing how much she depended on me, how much she needed me and couldn’t live without me. I liked knowing that, out of anyone, I was her favorite. 

This morning, she was wearing baby jeans and a white onesie with writing on it, but I can’t remember what it said. Something cheesy that people love to print on baby clothes, I’m sure. It doesn’t matter - but it’s bothersome that I can’t place what the words were. I remember dressing her in it simply because it matched. Why didn’t I read closer? 

She smiled at me when I lifted her from the crib this morning, fist in her mouth. She giggled when I picked her up and set her on the changing table, then kicked her legs like usual. I had smiled down at her, joyful at the fact she was happy to simply be alive, and kissed her all over. 

I keep the most recent images of Jackson and Peyton in my head along with the poignant ones from the past, because all I see now is darkness. It’s due to the gauze wrapped around my head and eyes, but still the fact isn’t comforting. The blackness goes on and on forever without a hint of light in any corner. I have to hold onto the images of my family to keep from becoming very afraid.

Jackson is beside me now, but as far as he can tell, I’m still asleep. I stay still, not wanting him to know that I’m awake yet, and feel his fingertips drift across my arm. He tickles it gently while resting his head on my chest and breathing slowly against me. He’s tucked as close as possible, yet I wish he were somehow closer. 

I wish I had kept him close all day. Maybe, if we hadn’t been fighting, things would have gone differently. It’s a silly thought, because I run the ER - which means there’s no way I wouldn’t have been on-scene for what happened. 

I’m not sure how it occurred. It all happened so fast. One minute I was standing next to a gurney holding a badly-burnt woman, and the next I was on the ground screaming, in the worst pain of my life. 

Before Peyton was cut out of me, I had contractions for hours upon hours. They ripped through my body like I was being torn in half for pleasure; my system had turned on itself. I thought, at the time, it was the worst pain I could ever experience. 

What happened today proved the year-ago version of me very wrong. There was no reward for this pain, no life to come of it. And I had no idea where the sensation came from at first, so the burning, singeing, crackling pain came out of nowhere and literally blinded me. Paired with the fact that I couldn’t move, I was beside myself. My own screaming flooded my ears, but I couldn’t stop. I remember screaming for Jackson as I lay there in the dirt, I remember screaming for him in the ambulance, but I stopped once they shot morphine into my system. I could breathe again after that.

I could breathe, but I still couldn’t see. And I still can’t, even now. I wonder when that will change.

I adjust a bit and take a deep breath, and Jackson physically responds. He lifts his head and stops the movement of his fingers on my arm, and I feel a hand on my face that I didn’t expect, so I jump.

“Hi, honey,” he says, and his voice is so soft. 

“Hi,” I say, stretching my fingers to find him again.

They land on the plane of his chest, so I feel my way to his shoulders and pull him back to me. I wrap my arms around his big head and he tucks his face into my neck, and I try and put my memories in order. I remember waking up once before and knowing Jackson was here, but that’s about it. Everything, even including that vague memory, is muddled and barely-there, like I wasn’t present for what happened to myself.

He hugs me tight; I feel his breath against the plane of my sternum. He doesn’t say a word, he just presses himself close and breathes against my body, letting me know that he’s here and not going anywhere. 

I don’t know what I would’ve done had I woken up alone. I’m scared enough as it is - having him next to me is such a comfort, even if I can’t see him. Feeling him, right now, is enough to let me know that I’m safe.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, still blinking against my neck. His eyelashes tickle - they’re so long. Longer than mine. 

When he brings it up, the pain of the skin surrounding my eyes throbs for attention. I grimace because of it and dig my fingers into his arm, and he sits up to assumedly look at me.

“Hurts,” I say. 

“I can get you some more morphine,” he says, then leans to reach for something. 

“It’s right there?” I ask. 

“No,” he says. “I paged Mark. He’s the lead doctor on your case. You’re in good hands, itty-bitty.” 

I don’t respond with words. Instead, I fold myself into him and rest my head in the crook between his shoulder and neck. We switch places as I rest on him, pushing myself as close as possible, and he wraps his arms tight around me and kisses the top of my head. 

“You’re okay,” he says. “I’m right here, and you’re right here. You’re a fucking badass, baby. You don’t have to be scared. Everything is gonna be just fine.” 

I nod, because I have no choice but to believe him. Any other prospect is terrifying. 

…

When I get the morphine, it makes my body turn lethargic and my thoughts become cloudy. I can’t quite discern what’s real and what’s not - it feels like I’m in a dream state that I can’t quite wake up from. It doesn’t help that I can’t see, either. It makes the world feel much less real and tangible.

“How’s your pain?” Jackson asks, though his voice is faraway and waterlogged. I feel his body next to mine, but for some reason it still doesn’t seem like he’s right there. 

“Don’t leave,” I say, clumsily grappling for him. I convince myself that if I say I’m fine, he won’t go. He won’t leave to get me more medicine or bring more doctors. He’ll just leave it like it is, just the two of us. “I’m fine. No pain.”

That’s not exactly the truth. My forehead burns along with my temples, and my eyes ache with a sharp, insistent throbbing. I don’t know if the morphine just hasn’t kicked in yet, but I refuse to take more. If the amount I got makes me feel like this, I can’t imagine what a higher dosage would do.

“None?” he says, and makes me jump when he kisses my cheek. I hadn’t expected it. “Oh, sorry,” he says, and rubs a thumb over the spot where his lips had just been. 

I shake my head subtly, not able to move it all that much, and adjust the way I’m lying. Another place where I’m uncomfortable is my chest, because my breasts are full and I either need to pump or feed my child. I’m not in the right frame of mind right now for either of those things, though, so all I can do is wince and cover my chest with one arm. 

“You don’t have to lie, babe,” Jackson says, reaching over me. “You’re allowed to have more morphine. “

“Not that,” I say, lying flat while still protecting my chest.

“It’ll help you feel better,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong with it.” 

“Not what hurts,” I say, wrinkling my forehead with frustration over the fact that I can’t seem to get my point across coherently. 

“Baby, what?” he says. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you mean.” 

“Baby,” I say emphatically, trying to put across that I mean Peyton, and the pain I’m having has nothing to do with my injuries. “Baby.” 

“I’m right here,” he says. 

I make a loud sound of exasperation and let my arms flop to my sides. He pauses - his vibe is alert but he doesn’t speak. 

“Is there something I can get for you?” he asks. “Are you sure you don’t want more meds? They won’t hurt you.” 

I shake my head vehemently. I debate trying to speak again, but I know my thoughts will just come out jumbled like before.

“Okay,” he says. “Why don’t you try and sleep?” 

I don’t respond. All I do is lie there on my back for a moment and try to breathe evenly without moving. If I don’t move, the pain isn’t quite as bad. I end up falling asleep for a little while - a deep, dreamless sleep that I’m not sure how to come out of when I wake up. 

It’s unsettling, because being wakeful looks the same as being asleep. I hadn’t dreamed while I was out, therefore I didn’t see much. So now, while my brain is conscious and alert, I’m still seeing what I saw while I was under. I’m not quite sure what to make of it. 

“Peyton,” I say, and Jackson shifts. He’s still right beside me. I wonder how long I’ve been sleeping. My breasts still hurt, and I miss my baby like crazy. 

“Hey,” he says. “You’re up.”

“Mmm…” I grunt, stretching my legs out straight. I skim one hand along the scratchy sheets until I find his fingers, then firmly grip them. “How long?” I ask. 

“Few hours,” he says. 

I have no concept of what time it is now. It could be the middle of the night or the middle of the day and I’d be none the wiser either way. 

“What… when…” I begin, but I don’t have to finish.

“It’s morning now,” he says. “Just after 7.” I nod and swallow hard, and he changes the way he’s sitting. “I want you to drink some water,” he says. “You need to stay hydrated.” 

“That’s what the IV’s for,” I say. The wires have been bothering me for a while now.

“April,” he says, and I can tell he’s serious by the tone of his voice, so I take the Styrofoam cup from him and find the straw with my lips and tongue. I suck it down greedily and he takes it when I’m finished, asking, “Are you hungry?”

I shake my head no. 

“You should eat something,” he says. “It’s been a while.” 

“I want the baby,” I say, finally able to voice what I was thinking from before. “Peyton. Where is she?” 

“Lexie has her,” Jackson answers. “You want… you want to see her? Um, have… hold her, I mean?”

I nod. “My boobs hurt,” I say. “She’ll be fussy. She’ll want me.” 

“Of course,” he says. “Let me give Lexie a call. And after that, Mark should be ready for your consult. Okay?” 

I nod, resting back on the pillow without another choice. I don’t listen to the details of Jackson on the phone, but instead tune my hearing into the beeping of the heart monitor and the drip of the IV near my head. Both are sounds that I’m very familiar with, but I never thought I’d be in the situation to hear them like this. 

“She’ll bring Pey by in a few minutes,” he says, voice surprising me once again. “She’s grabbing her from daycare.”

“Okay,” I mutter, and clasp my hands together to twist and wring my fingers. I can’t seem to get comfortable now, lying here in one place. I’m starting to get antsy. 

I hear Peyton long before she and Lexie arrive, all the way from down the hall. I’d know that voice anywhere - high-pitched and joyful - and the first smile since the accident blooms on my face.

“I hear her,” I say, sitting up a bit straighter. “I hear my Peanut.” 

“...gonna go see Mama. Doesn’t that sound good? We’re gonna see Mama!” I hear Lexie talking baby-talk to Peyton as they come through the doorway, and then the air falls silent and still. 

“Lexie?” I say, holding my arms out. “That’s you, right?”

“I’m here,” she says, but I don’t hear any footsteps. 

“Dada!” Peyton says, and the mattress lifts as Jackson must stand up and walk over to her. He mutters something, but I can’t place the words he says. I strain to hear, but I’m unsuccessful. I don’t want to ruin the moment by asking what their apparent secret is, though. I just want my baby. 

“Can I have her?” I ask, feeling helpless. I can’t get out of bed because I can’t see where I’m going, not until this gauze is off. So, all I can do is hold out my hands and wag my fingers, practically begging for my child. 

Jackson gasps playfully. “There’s Mama,” he says. “There’s your pretty mama. Let’s go see her.” 

He comes closer and sits back on the bed, and I reach my arms towards him once again.

“I’m handing her over now,” he tells me, which I appreciate. “One, two, three. There she goes!” 

The warm weight of my daughter is pleasant and grounding, and I squeeze her tight to my chest as a greeting. She doesn’t make any sound, which is unusual, but I try not to read into it. I rub her back and try to get her settled, but she won’t relax. Her muscles are tense, and she won’t comply like usual, like how I normally position her to nurse. 

“You have to be hungry,” I say. “And I’m ready for you to eat, little one. Come on. Don’t you wanna nurse?” 

Peyton fusses and whines, and I feel both of her little palms push against my chest. I try and readjust her, but she squirms into a different position and ends up with her hands on the gauze over my eyes, and I flinch away with a surprised-sounding shriek. 

That reaction sends the baby over the edge. She pulls away from me and starts crying, loud and emotional, and by the way her torso swivels I can tell she’s reaching for Jackson. 

“Oh, come on, P,” he says. “What’s wrong? What’s up with you today?” 

“Take her,” I say. “Jackson, please. Just take her.” 

Noticing my sharp tone, he does as I ask. After the baby is out of my arms, still whimpering in Jackson’s, I touch the gauze self-consciously. She was scared of me - that’s why she cried.

“Honey, it’s fine,” Jackson says, then his voice muffles a bit when he said, “Could you give us a minute?” Lexie must have still been in the room, silently watching. 

“She’s scared of me,” I say, turning my head down and to the side. “Don’t let her see me. I don’t want to make it worse.” 

“She’s not scared of you,” he says. “She’s just not used to the bandages. Cut her some slack, baby.” 

“I must look horrible,” I say, then feel my face. Even the skin that isn’t covered by the white cloth feels bumpy and covered in ridges - my cheekbones, my jaw, there seems to be residual scarring there, too. The skin is sticky, like there’s been ointment put on it. How come I can’t remember that? “I must look like a monster.” 

“You don’t,” Jackson insists. In his arms, Peyton has stopped crying, now lessened to minor whines and sighs. 

“What do I look like, then?” I ask, and realize for the first time that my fingers are trembling.

“You look like you,” he says, and the mattress shifts as he leans closer. 

I feel his breath on my skin before he touches me, and then he presses a benign kiss to my neck - a place that wasn’t affected by burns. He pulls away, and immediately I yearn for him to stay, I yearn for more. But I don’t tell him that. 

“I don’t feel like me,” I whisper, and let my chin hit my chest. 

“I know,” he says, and doesn’t offer anything more. He doesn’t have to. 

We spend a moment in silence, and I wonder what Peyton is doing. Is she staring at me? Is she expecting me to make a funny face at her like I usually do when I catch her eye? I don’t know. Maybe, she’s looking off into the distance, out the window, or at her Daddy’s face. Into her daddy’s eyes, the ones who will look back. I wonder what she’s thinking, if she even knows that it’s me sitting in front of her. Maybe, for all she knows, I’m just another patient at the hospital where Mommy and Daddy work. 

“I need to pump,” I say, situating. “If she won’t eat, I need to… they hurt.” 

“Oh,” he says. “I can… do you want to try her again, maybe?”

I shake my head and set my jaw. For Peyton’s sake, I would love to. But if she pushes me away again, it would only shove the knife in deeper and I’m not sure how much more pain I can take at the moment.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll go find one.” 

…

I don’t like to sleep as much as I have been, but I can’t help it. It feels like days upon days have gone by, though every time I ask Jackson he says it’s only been a few minutes, or a couple hours at most. It’s a horrible feeling - like I’m caught in time, stuck in limbo, and I can’t climb out because I don’t have the energy. 

When I wake up this time, I hear conversation. There’s more than just Jackson in the room - I recognize Mark’s voice alongside his, both of them speaking in low, hushed tones as they probably were trying not to wake me.

“I’ll know more when I see the condition of her eyes, her physical eyes,” Mark says. “There are three categories she could fall into. After I know what one she’s in, I’ll know whether or not to be worried.” 

“Okay,” Jackson says, sounding troubled.

I try not to move, but Mark somehow notices I’m awake, anyway. “Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, and I hear wheels roll closer. When he speaks again, his voice is right next to me. “How’re you feeling? Any pain?” 

“Don’t want any more morphine,” I say, and hear how groggy my voice sounds. I wonder how long I was out. “It makes me all… I can’t think.”

“Understandable,” he says. “But if you’re in a lot of pain, I don’t want you to hesitate. Alright?” I nod halfheartedly. “I’m gonna grab your vitals. Then, we’re gonna work on removing these bandages.” 

“What are the categories?” I ask, referencing what he said just moments ago. 

He clears his throat softly. “Right. Well, there’s Grade 1, 2, 3, and 4,” he says. “Grade 1, your eyes look pretty clear. There might be some epithelial damage, but that’s it. If that’s the case, great. Grade 2, we’re looking at corneal oedema. Significant swelling, watering, redness. If you fall into that category, it’s fine. We can work with that. Grade 3 has to do with corneal ulcers. They’re harder to work with, but manageable. Grade 4 is the easiest to spot - your eye would be completely white, no visible iris, pupil, or much of anything.” 

I nod softly. I don’t have much of a response. 

“I’m gonna listen to your heart now,” he says. “This will be cold.” 

Even though he warned me, I still jump when the stethoscope hits my skin. He has me sit up to move it around my back to listen to my lungs, then takes my blood pressure. After he’s finished, he takes a while to reapply the salve to the burns on my face. It stings, but I try not to let it show. 

“You doing alright?” he asks, and the wheels roll away. I nod. “Okay. I’m gonna get my scissors, and we’re gonna take the gauze off. Sound good? Still okay?” 

“Yes,” I mutter. 

Footsteps come closer and Jackson takes my hand without warning, which startles me. “Hey,” he says. “Sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” I whisper, suddenly very nervous as Mark gets near my face.

“This won’t hurt,” he say. “When the air hits the burnt skin, you might feel a little stinging. But I’ve got it numbed up pretty good, so you should be fine.” 

“Okay,” I whisper, feeling the anticipation build over what I might see when they come off. 

I’m looking forward to the world being lit up again, even if it’s blurry. Even if it’s not like my sight was before, at least it will be something. It’ll be something more than the darkness I’ve been trapped inside - and I don’t even know how long I’ve been behind this curtain. I just can’t wait to get out. 

“Alright, I’m gonna start cutting,” he says. “Hold still for me.” 

I don’t move a muscle. I keep my shoulders tense and straight, sitting with a rigid spine. I barely breathe while I listen to the scissors snip carefully, and Jackson keeps a gentle hold on my hand during the process. 

It seems to take forever. When Jackson squeezes my fingers, I open my mouth and feel a breeze on my face, but there must still be some material left because I can’t see anything different. 

“Are we almost done?” I ask, trying to sound curious instead of impatient.

“We are done,” Mark says, and his voice sounds far away. I realize only then that the snipping stopped a bit ago, there’s cool air on my raw skin, yet the world is still dark.

“Oh,” I say.

“Can you open your eyes for me, all the way?” he asks. 

I thought they had been. At least, that’s what it felt like. But, I don’t argue. Instead, I try and lift the lids to an alert position, and I’m pretty sure they get there. Even so, the lightness of the room doesn’t change. Or rather, the darkness of it.

“Thank you,” Mark says. “I’m gonna give you a little exam, just to see where you’re at. Can you tell me if you see anything, April?” 

My stomach twists with nerves. The gauze is gone, my eyes are open, yet I still see nothing. Blackness, darkness, absolutely no speck of light anywhere. It’s like I’m in a dark room with the curtains drawn, facing the wall. There’s nothing to grasp. 

I can’t say it out loud. If I tell him I’m completely blind, there’s no hope. I’m a doctor, I know that much, but I also know religion. If I keep the faith that I’ll come back from this, maybe I can. If I put a little bit of hope into the universe, maybe I’ll be rewarded for it.

“Any light? Any change at all from before?” 

“I… yes,” I say, running my bottom teeth over my top lip. “It’s lighter. I can see light.” 

“You can?” Jackson asks, his voice full of excitement. I can’t answer him with words - I only nod.

“Okay…” Mark says, then pauses. “Did you see that?”

I open my mouth and make a soft sound with my lips parted. “Um,” I stammer. “I… I don’t know.” 

“I’m gonna shine a light in your eyes again to see if there’s any reaction,” he says. “You let me know if you can see it.” 

“Okay.” 

A moment passes where I assume he’s carrying out the action he told me he would, but still I see nothing. No change in the darkness, no fluctuation of light, no lift in the shadows. 

“I saw it,” I say, then hear him scribbling something down on a chart. 

He doesn’t respond, so I blink hard to try and make something come of my vision. I have the urge to reach up and rub my eyes, but I know that’s impossible. The skin surrounding them would fall apart. 

“Mark, I saw it,” I say, when an answer still doesn’t come. 

“Okay,” he says, but his voice sounds funny. “I’ll give you another test, then. You tell me when the flashlight is on, then when it’s off. Alright? We’ll start in three, two, one…” 

No matter how hard I squint or concentrate, I know nothing will come of it. So, I have to use my best guessing skills when saying the words ‘on’ and ‘off,’ but really it just feels like I’m throwing them out into the universe with no hope of getting the answers right. 

When he speaks again, his tone is very serious and sounds very close to me. Jackson still hasn’t let go of my hand, and now his forehead is resting upon it, assumedly with his body bent in half. 

“April, I want you to tell me the truth,” Mark says, sounding calm and even - the opposite of what’s happening inside me at the moment. “Can you see that light?” 

I open my mouth to instinctively give him an affirmative answer, but stop myself before I can. It’s obvious I got the test completely wrong, so lying now would be a mistake. It would be beyond stupid, and counterproductive over anything. 

“No,” I answer, very soft and meek. 

“Okay,” he says, then writes something else. 

“What does that mean?” Jackson chimes in, sitting up again. “She’s blind? She’s completely blind?” 

The wheels on Mark’s stool make a quiet sound as he moves around. “It’s all in the way her eyes look, like I said,” he explains. “April,” he continues, and touches the hand that Jackson doesn’t have. “You’re in Grade 4. Your eyes are extremely cloudy, whitened over. No iris visible. When I saw them, I knew.” 

I begin to shake, and not gently, either. My body rattles and quakes, and I have to pull both arms to my chest to try and make it stop. It’s relentless, though, as it makes its way through my body like a persistent wave of malaise. 

“I’m blind?” I ask, clenching my fists. “For how long? When will my sight come back?” 

There’s a long pause before he speaks. “It’d be statistically impossible for it to come back,” he says. “Because you’re in Grade 4 with this much progression, there’s not much to be done. Of course, I can treat the burns and fix up your skin as best I can. But the eyes… it’s nearly impossible that your sight will return.” 

When I start to cry, it surprises me. It’s a natural reaction, but it hadn’t crossed my mind that tears would still be able to come out of my broken eyes. 

I think of everything I saw today, and how much I took it for granted. How much everyone takes their sight for granted. I don’t know what Jackson’s expression is right now, and I don’t know if Mark is looking at me. I can’t see the weather, I don’t know what time it is. I can’t check my phone, I can’t perform surgery, and I can’t see my child’s face. 

“You’re sure?” Jackson says. “Think about what you’re telling her right now. You’re saying that she’ll never regain her sight, ever?” 

“With cases like this, it’s beyond rare,” Mark says. “The acid corroded the cornea and nerves, there’s no way for the body to heal itself in a situation like this.” 

We’re quiet then. No one speaks. I don’t know what could possibly be said right now. I have no words to fill the silence, and my chest feels like it’s cracking. Tears sting my mottled skin, and I can’t wipe them away. I just let them run over the bumps and sores and drip below my chin. There’s nothing I can do. There’s nothing anyone can do. 

“I’ll give you some time,” Mark says, and I hear him get up from the stool. “If you need anything, just holler.” He walks towards the door, but turns around before he leaves to say, “I’m really sorry.” 

Neither of us respond. There’s still nothing to say. 

After he goes, Jackson strokes my wrist with purpose. He takes my hand in both of his and just holds it, then brings it to his face to kiss the back of my palm. 

“You really can’t see anything?” he says. “No light, not anything?” 

“Nothing,” I whisper, facing straight ahead. 

Why look over if I can’t see him? But I reach my hand out anyway to find his face, and after a few blunders, I make it. I feel the scratchiness of his beard under my fingertips, and as I move upward, I feel wetness on his cheeks. 

“You’re crying,” I say softly, thumbing away the teardrops. 

He sniffles loudly and wipes away them away roughly, using the heels of his palm. He knocks my hand as he does, but I bring it back. My heart hurts knowing how much he’s affected by this, and along with my sadness and anger comes an impeccable feeling of guilt. I’m the one who was blinded, but he’ll be sent reeling from it, too. 

I’m inundated with the amount of things I’ll no longer be able to do, the things that came as second nature while I could see. I can’t cook, I can’t drive, I can’t go shopping. I can’t go on walks alone, I won’t be able to do much of anything alone. 

I didn’t ask for this, but neither did he. 

My face flushes with anger as I realize what position he’s been put in. I move my hand away from his face and clench my fingers into fists, wanting nothing more than to reach out and punch something. I want to punish the man who did this to me as much as I’m being punished for doing absolutely nothing, for trying to help people. Helping people is what I do - I’m a surgeon - and this is how I’m repaid. 

It doesn’t seem right. This is all wrong. This isn’t my life; it can’t be. 

“Maybe it’ll come back,” Jackson says, interrupting my fiery thoughts. 

I let a loud breath from my nose, thinking of how to respond. “Or maybe, it won’t,” I say, snapping. Spit flies from my mouth when I say it, coated in vitriol. 

“But it could,” he says. “You’re the one always talking about miracles. You never know.” 

My breath comes quieter after hearing him say that. He’s right, I’ve always been the believer and he’s always been the skeptic, but as the roles are reversed, I’m only able to wrap my head around one thing - he deserves a better life. 

“You don’t want this,” I say.

“What?” he asks, sounding confused. “What don’t I want?” 

“This!” I say, blowing up and crying harder. “Do you really want to take care of a blind person for the rest of your damn life, Jackson? Think about it. Is that really what you want?” 

He doesn’t respond at first, and I’m terrified to think he’s turning over the question in his mind and wondering if I’m right. I don’t want to be right. If the tables were turned, I would take care of him until my dying breath. But the last thing I want to be is a burden, and I refuse to take on that role. 

“You’re not a blind person,” he says, finally. “You’re my wife. And I vowed to take care of you in sickness and in health, so yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to do, and what I want to do.” 

I shake my head for a while without speaking. I just sit there shaking it, wondering what to say, wondering what words could patch up this gaping hole, this perpetual night. I’m not sure if ones exist that cover enough space. There’s no Band-Aid big enough for this wound. 

But sutures would work. Stitches, too. Stitches that bring the skin back together and fade with time, leaving a perfect, unbroken seam in their place. 

“But this isn’t the life you wanted,” I say, voice weak and wavering. 

We’ve always been a dynamic duo - a husband and wife surgical team, impressive in every category. Now, that can’t be. We won’t exist on the same plane anymore, in the same realm. Everything will change. Our idyllic lifestyle will be turned on its head, starting today. Starting this very moment.

“This  _ is  _ the life I wanted,” he says, lifting himself onto the bed again. He must have been on a chair before, because now he’s closer than he was. He wraps an arm around my waist and kisses my neck again without moving away, just resting there with his nose against my steadily beating pulse. “I’m with you.” 

I inhale deeply as more tears drip from the corners of my eyes and slide down my temples, into my ears. He’s saying exactly what I need to hear, yet I don’t feel the comfort that’s supposed to come with it. 

I’m blind. My sight probably isn’t coming back, and everything I know was ripped from me. My stability, my independence, my livelihood. I was living the life I always dreamed - the perfect husband, job, and baby. And now, I’m left in the dark. I can’t see what I’ve made. My passion was stripped away - I will never save someone’s life again. Not like this. 

This might be the life he wanted, but now the vision of mine is horribly skewed. More than skewed - it’s gone. Now, I’ll only be able to see what came before, what I’ve already done. I will never be able to make new sight memories or see what’s to come. And I have to be okay with that, but I’m not.

I wrap my arms around Jackson’s shoulders and cling to him with every ounce of strength I have, ignoring the stinging burns on my face. I press my white eyes shut and hope that when I open them, everything will be back to the way it was. 

But I know that it won’t be. 


	6. Chapter 6

**JACKSON**

April’s eyes were the first thing I noticed about her. 

I was in the campus bookstore on a hot Tuesday afternoon in late September. I was looking through the racks for ‘Fundamentals of Pathology’ and simultaneously sweating my ass off. I was about to start my first year of med school at U Chicago, nervous while trying to pretend I wasn’t. 

I wiped the sweat off my forehead and squinted at the titles of the books laid out in rows. I already had a good armful, and this was the last one I needed. Once I picked it up, I could go home and take a well-deserved nap. I’d already worked out for a few hours that day, and I was beat. 

Just a few moments later, I saw the book and reached for it. But just as I did, a much smaller, daintier hand went for it at the same time. 

“Oh, excuse me,” a voice said, and I looked up at the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. 

She was tiny with red hair in loose curls, freckles spotting her cheeks, and the prettiest green eyes. She kept them downcast so I could mostly just see her eyelashes, but the color peeked through just a little. Her nails were painted a periwinkle blue with no chips, and she was wearing white denim shorts with a dark green shirt on top. I remember how she looked in vivid detail - I looked at her and saw everything I didn’t know I’d been waiting for. 

I picked up the book, as I’d had a grip on it first, and she lifted her gaze to my face. Her eyes were even prettier in the light, even the harsh fluorescents of the bookstore. 

“Hey. I need that,” she said, eyebrows furrowing. 

“It’s for my class,” I said, placing it atop the stack I was holding. “Last one on my list.” 

“It’s the last one there!” she said, pointing at the empty space the book left behind. “I really, really need that. It’s my first day tomorrow.”

“Yeah, mine too,” I said, laughing. 

She huffed. “I was here first,” she said.

“Well, I touched it first,” I said. 

She shook her head and crossed her arms. She narrowed those beautiful eyes and then rolled them, completely agitated. All I could do was smile and laugh like an asshole - partly because I was amused, and partly because I was nervous as fuck around a girl as pretty as her.

“It’ll take weeks for one to get mailed here,” she said. “Please. I’ll pay you, I don’t know. Can you just give me the book?” 

“I can,” I said. “One on condition. I’ll trade you for your number.” 

She raised her upper lip and her eyebrows. “Seriously?” she exclaimed. “Are you really serious right now?” 

“I don’t think it’s that bad of a deal,” I said. 

“Whatever,” she replied, waving a hand as she turned around. “I’ll just order one. Have a nice life.” 

I watched her walk away without tearing my eyes off her, not until she turned the corner and disappeared out of sight. “Damn,” I said to myself, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time I saw her. 

It wasn’t. The next day, when I walked into my General Pathology class, I meandered around while trying to find someplace to sit. I scanned the room even though I didn’t know anyone yet, and tried to decide what seat would be best. 

My gaze caught on the second row - specifically, the back of a head with shining red hair falling down the back. I couldn’t help but smile as I trotted down the lecture hall steps and slid into the seat right next to her. 

“Hey,” I said. “Remember me?” 

She jumped, as I’d come out of nowhere. She turned to look at me and I watched recognition flash in those luminous eyes, so I tipped my head to the side with a cocky grin. 

“Seriously,” she said again. 

“Seriously,” I repeated, then held up the book. “Hey, at least now we can share.”

She eyed me, then the book, then back to me. She was seemingly having some sort of inner turmoil, one that she ended up giving in to. 

“Sure,” she said, and the look in her eyes changed. 

“That was easy,” I said. “So, you don’t hate me anymore?” 

She shrugged. “I didn’t hate you. I was annoyed at you for taking the last book because it was a very annoying thing to do. But now, you’re offering to share with me, so the sting wore off.” 

I snorted. “We can share, if you’ll be my study buddy. I don’t know shit about pathology.” 

She frowned. “This is the Level 100 class. Isn’t that kind of the point?”

“See, you’re already smarter than me.” 

That made her laugh. And after seeing her laugh for the first time, I promised that I would do my best to make it happen all the time. Her teeth were bright and beautiful, her eyes squinted to little slits, and her hand came up to cover her mouth. 

“So, ‘smarter than me,’” I said. “I’m Jackson. What should I call you?”

She gave me a sidelong glance and a smirk. “April,” she said. “I’m April.” 

And from that moment on, I knew I wanted her as my wife.

…

We kissed on our first date in November, though she swore she wouldn’t have done it with anyone else. I believed her and still do. There’s something about April that she keeps close to her heart and protects from the world - and she showed me a bit of it that night. 

In class and during our study sessions, she would always talk about the ferris wheel at Navy Pier. She knew all sorts of facts about it - how it’d only been replaced once since the original, and the original was the first ferris wheel ever - used at the World’s Fair. She knew how tall it was, how long the rides lasted, and would go on and on about how it lit up at night. 

So, I only found it fitting to take her there on a Saturday night after we stuffed ourselves with Italian food and frozen yogurt. Seeing her face when we were at the top of the wheel made my fear of heights worth it. 

“This is so amazing,” she said, standing up and pressing her hands against the glass. “You can see everything!” 

“It is pretty cool,” I commented, but I was only looking at her profile. Her smile was full of disbelief, and her eyes were shining. The city was still a lot for her to take in - she came from rural Ohio and wasn’t too familiar with skyscrapers and the buzz of downtown. I, on the other hand, came from Boston. All this wasn’t too new for me. 

“Do you want to look?” she asked, turning around.

“Nah, I’m good right here,” I said. “Heights kinda freak me out.” 

“Oh,” she said, giggling as she came to sit back down. 

She melded against my side and I made a bold move and wrapped my arm around her. There was some unspoken agreement between us that we were definitely on a date, but neither of us had spoken it aloud. But I paid for dinner and dessert, which I thought was a pretty good indicator. 

“I just can’t believe how beautiful the view is,” she said, still looking through the glass while I stared at her. I couldn’t believe how hard I was falling for her. I’d never felt like that before. 

“I’m about to say something really fuckin’ cheesy,” I warned her, and her shoulders bounced with a few giggles. 

“Okay,” she said. 

“The view might be beautiful, but not as beautiful as you,” I said, with my face turned to look at hers, which put us extremely close to each other. 

“Jackson...” she trailed off, shaking her head while clapping a hand down on my thigh. I wanted her to keep it there for as long as possible. 

“I told you it was cheesy.” 

She met my eyes then, hers shimmering, with her lips turned up in a sweet smile. “You did,” she said, and her voice grew quiet. Her gaze flitted from my eyes, to my mouth, and it kept going back and forth. 

“Should we kiss?” I asked, and mentally punched myself for sounding so adolescent. That probably ruined the moment. I should’ve just kissed her without the precursor. Why take the romance away like that?

“I think we should,” she said, and I watched her eyes close as she cradled my jaw in both hands and pressed her pretty lips to mine - sweet and slow. My heart fluttered in my chest as I copied her motion and closed my eyes, too, arms winding around her lower back to keep her close. The kiss wasn’t wildly passionate, rough, or sloppy, but it was everything I hoped it would be. 

When we pulled away, the shimmering in her eyes changed to full-out glittering. She looked giddy, and I felt the same. 

Then, she voiced exactly what I was thinking when she asked, “Can we do that again?” 

…

We slept together for the first time in the spring, almost a full year after we met. I remember because the breeze blowing in was crisp, but it was just warm enough to keep the window open. I can also remember because nothing could make me forget that night.

She was gorgeous, of course, like always. She was nervous, too, but so was I. She was a virgin, and though she had plenty of reasons to be anxious about sex, I had my own fair share about sleeping with someone who had never done it before. It was a big deal, stripping her of that purity, and I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t want her to hate it and by proxy, hate me. She was the most important thing in my life, though she’d only been in it for a short while. I couldn’t imagine it without her - I didn’t want to. 

But it wasn’t scary, after all. It was beautiful and cathartic, being with her, and it felt different than being with any other girl. When mine and April’s bodies came together and formed that union, it felt like I was solidifying my future. She looked at me like I was the only person she’d ever see, and I looked back with enough love to blind her. She was it for me, and if I didn’t know it before, I knew it then. As she was naked under me, I wanted everything with her. I wanted marriage, children, and a full life. I wanted to give her everything and experience it all by her side. 

When she came, she lost her breath and pinched her eyes shut. I watched her face as the orgasm rippled through, and relished the feeling of her hips spasming and jerking against mine as her muscles tensed and released. I kissed all the skin I could reach and opened my mouth on her neck, sucking her pulse point until her limbs went slack and she lay there trying to catch her breath.

“Wow,” she sighed, and I picked my head up to look at her face. Her eyes were foggy and full of feeling, and seeing them that way made me smile. I knew that I was the one to put her in such a state, and I felt proud in an alpha sort of way. 

She framed my face with her palms on my cheeks, and kissed me on the lips. We held it for a long time without moving, our faces just squished together out of pure need. And when we finally pulled away to breathe, she was smiling so big that her cheeks bulged. 

“What?” I asked, tracing her eyebrows and the bridge of her nose. 

She shook her head and laughed a bit. “I can’t believe how much I love you,” she said, then kissed my chin. I hadn’t shaved for a while and she’d been begging me to, but in the moment it didn’t seem like she cared. And I figured she’d like the way my beard felt between her legs when we got to that point, which we eventually would.

“You’re crazy if you think you love me more,” I said, nudging her jaw while she laughed and skimmed her hands down my back, over my shoulder blades. “‘Cause I’m fuckin’ obsessed with you.” 

She laughed with her mouth closed and hugged my neck tight, burying her face in my chest while dropping kisses anywhere and everywhere. She wrapped her legs around my waist and held me tight as a vice, and I couldn’t help but laugh. 

“You got me trapped, itsy-bitsy,” I said, using that nickname for the very first time. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” 

She hummed against my throat; I could feel her eyelashes ghosting over my skin. “Hmmm…” she said. “Good.” 

…

I graduated med school when I was 26, and April was 25. I remember seeing her in those maroon robes with the black stole, that square hat on top of her little head, and thinking she was about the cutest thing I’d ever seen. She waved at me from across the crowd - Avery and Kepner were nowhere close to each other in the alphabetical line - and smiled that big-ass, bright smile that made me fall in love with her.

She blew me kisses as the line began to move and I had to turn around and start the procession. I graduated Magna Cum Laude and April, of course, had to one-up me and graduate Summa Cum Laude. It was just the way things worked between us, but I didn’t care. She was organized, well thought-out, and type A. I thought on my feet and could make decisions in the blink of an eye. 

With how different our mindsets are, it’s strange that we ended up in the departments we did. April always said she wanted something with set hours and a predictable schedule so she could raise a family, yet she was drawn to trauma. I always leaned towards cardio, but plastics caught my eye before anything else could. We both fit where we fell, though, because we’d found our respective passions. 

I can’t quite wrap my head around the fact that April’s passion will no longer be an option for her, because when we graduated, it was all she wanted. All she could think about, all she could talk about. Neither of us could wait to start our internships at Northwestern Memorial Hospital in downtown Chicago, but first we had to celebrate. 

“Let’s go somewhere,” I told her after we left the restaurant where we ate with our friends. “Pick anywhere.”

She gasped, eyes shining, and said, “Ferris wheel.” 

I laughed and pulled her close by the waist, jostling her a bit. “Think bigger, bitsy.” 

She frowned as she thought. “Uh… Shedd Aquarium?”

I kissed her cheek as she stared ahead with confusion. “How about O’Hare,” I said.

She cocked her head. “What’s fun about the airport? I know there’s that hall with the lights you like, but-” 

“No, no, baby,” I said, kissing the corner of her jaw as she stayed clueless. “Pick anywhere to go  _ from _ there.” 

“Wait, what?” she said, thoroughly surprised. 

“It’s my graduation present to you,” I said. “Anywhere you want, we’ll go.” 

“Jackson,” she said, stopping in her tracks. “You didn’t have to do this. I don’t know what to say.” 

“You say where you want the plane to take us, and it’ll take us there,” I said. “Our bags are in the trunk.” 

“You sneak!” she said, and slapped my chest playfully. “How did you pull this off?!” 

“A fuck-ton of luck,” I said, laughing. “Since you notice every little damn thing. I had to do it when you left before me today.” 

She smiled and craned her neck, asking wordlessly for a kiss. I knew what that gesture meant by that point; she did it all the time. 

“I wanna go…” she trailed off. “To Miami. I wanna be on the beach.” 

“You in a bikini sounds perfect,” I said, which made her roll her eyes. “It’s decided, then. Let’s go.” 

I booked us at Eden Roc Miami Beach Resort with a specific plan in mind. Of course, April marveled at the white sand, palm trees, and warm weather, but little did she know - I had something much bigger up my sleeve. 

The first night, after we got back from dinner with a great view of the ocean, I took her out on our balcony that overlooked the beach. All she had on was a white, flowy nightgown and her hair was down in beach curls around her shoulders - she was a vision. She continued to amaze me even though I saw her every day. 

We sat out there with our glasses of sangria and took in the ocean at night, and for hours we just talked. About everything; our pasts, school, and our imminent future - the future we could see together. 

My stomach jumped with what I was about to do. I couldn’t put it off any longer, because if I did, I wouldn’t do it at all. And it was something that definitely needed to be done. 

“April,” I said, sinking onto one knee in front of her.

She looked away from the water and rested those pretty green eyes on me, then gasped theatrically. I had surprised her yet again - came out of nowhere, just like I’d hoped. 

“Jackson,” she breathed, and covered her mouth with her hands. Her eyes were wide and round, blinking rapidly. “Jackson, oh my god… are you really…” 

“April,” I said again, trying to keep my voice even. “You’re the love of my life. The only one I ever want to be with, the only person I could see myself having a life with. I want it all with you - I want babies, I want our badass careers, I want a house, I want to be your husband.” She was openly crying - the tears made her mossy eyes glisten and shine. “So, will you do me the honor of being my wife? April, will you marry me?” 

I reached up and wiped the tears from her cheeks as she nodded like crazy. “Yes!” she said, then bounced to her feet. I stood up, too, and she flew into my arms and wrapped hers around my shoulders to give me a big kiss. “I love you,” she said, nose pressed right to mine. Her eyes were closed, but exuding so much feeling. 

“You wanna spend the rest of your life with me?” I asked, playfully kissing the corner of her mouth.

“Of course I do,” she answered, and it was set in stone. 

We didn’t wait to get married, which pissed our parents off to no end. But there was no reason to; we were in a beautiful place with a perfect venue, and we didn’t see a point in putting it off. We got married by the beach - I was in dark jeans and a blue button-up, and she was in a little while dress we’d found at a shop along the coast. Though it wasn’t a big production, wasn’t much at all, it was perfect because I was looking at her. No matter where we were, she was all I’d be able to see, anyway. 

…

When Peyton was born, April was in agony for the better part of 36 hours. She cried and screamed and begged for our baby to be taken out of her, and I’d never felt so useless in my life. Nothing worked - not the epidural, and definitely not the pitocin. When the doctors exhausted all other options, they decided to do an emergency C-section on my wife as a last resort - and that procedure is what gave us our strong and healthy baby girl. 

Peyton didn’t cry at first, and April was silent, too. Silent and spent, more withered than I’d ever seen her, and I didn’t know who to tend to first. Our baby was being cleaned up, flushed out, and wrapped up, so I used those moments to kiss April’s face and bring her back to me. 

“She’s coming over in just a second,” I said, then looked at her vitals on the monitor next to her head. I was a doctor, I knew she was fine - but there was no way I’d ever be able to understand the exhaustion she was experiencing from what her body just went through. “She’s so big, baby.”

April managed a breathy, weak smile. “You don’t need to tell me how big she is,” she said. Even in the midst of all that turmoil, she was still able to make me laugh. 

I kissed her and she kissed me back as best she could; it wasn’t much, but it was enough. Her eyes were half-lidded when I pulled away, but when they brought Peyton over swaddled in a blanket, April came back to life - and it started in her eyes first. They lit up with recognition and love; the little person who had made a home inside her for 9 months, whom she had grown within her body, was now a living, breathing human about to be set in her mother’s arms.

“Oh,” April cooed, once they lay the baby down. “Oh, Peyton. Hi, my beautiful Peyton Symone.” She looked up at me with hope in those eyes, and I kissed the space between her eyebrows. “Look what we made,” she whispered, and I pressed my face close to hers to take in the sight of our baby being held by her mother for the first time. 

April soaked in the sight of our child, too. That night, she spent hours just staring at her, memorizing her, getting to know her. She spent so long with her eyes on that clear bassinet, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough, because the sight memories made in one year can’t possibly make up for a lifetime without them. 

…

She’s sitting up in the hospital bed now, staring at nothing. Her eyes are white and glassy - a staple of hers has been stripped. It’s hard to stomach the fact that I won’t see those little greens blink open in the morning anymore, that the color I’d once loved so much is gone. Replacing it is a white shield, a veneer, a mask that hides everything that once was. 

Her eyelashes and eyebrows were singed off, too. I wonder if they’ll ever grow back. 

The hospital room is quiet. Neither of us talk. I can’t think of anything meaningful to say, but I want badly to know what’s going on inside her head. I don’t dare ask, though. I don’t want to push her to talk if that’s not something she’s comfortable with. I don’t want to ruin the silence if the silence is what she wants. I can’t tell what she wants, though, and that bothers me. 

She barely moves. When she blinks, it’s quick. But her breathing is slow, like she’s deep in thought far away from me. So, when I hear her voice, it’s surprising. 

“Jackson,” she says, sounding panicky. “Are you still here? Where are you?”

“Hey,” I say, standing halfway up from the chair. “I’m right here. I didn’t go anywhere.” 

“Where?” she says, body swiveling in the direction of my voice. “Where? I couldn’t hear you. Did you leave?” 

“I was here the whole time,” I say, taking her hand. It makes her flinch, which I really don’t like. I don’t like that her first reaction to my touch is to be scared of it, though I know I can’t blame her. She can’t see me coming.

“I didn’t hear you,” she says, grappling for both my hands. “You’re here? You didn’t go?”

“I didn’t go anywhere,” I say. “I promise. Were you thinking hard about something?” 

Her breath hitches as she presses her eyes shut - she looks more like herself when she does that, though I feel bad for thinking it. It’s hard for me to look directly into those unending, cloudy eyes that used to hold so much personality. It’s like looking into the void, and I don’t know how to handle it yet. 

“No,” she says. “I just… I just want you to stay. Can you stay?” 

“I’ll stay,” I say, trying to be as comforting as I can. I crawl into bed and she shrinks into herself, cuddling against me like a little kid. I wrap my arms around her and kiss the top of her head, rubbing her arm with intent. “Don’t be scared, itty-bitty. I got you.” 

She nods, but there’s not much conviction behind it. 

“Do you want to see Izzie yet?” I ask, as the blonde has been on my mind. She’s asked to see April plenty of times, but been turned down for each one. I’m not her biggest fan, but I can’t help but feel bad. She’s being spurned by her best friend - that has to be disheartening. 

“No,” April whispers, and hides her face against my chest. “Just you.”

…

A few days pass before April is discharged with no improvements. The burns on the top half of her face continue to heal, and she’s allowed to go home after scheduling daily appointments to come back and get them cleaned and redressed. I told Mark I could do it at the house, but he insisted she come in and see him instead. Conflict of interest, probably. I’m not allowed to medically treat family. 

I’m nervous to take her home. I don’t know how to care for someone who’s blind, and I don’t want to do something wrong. Mark has given me pointers and told me above all else, she’s my wife. I know her, and I’ll know when something isn’t right. But how can he be so sure about that? 

I have to try and be confident in my abilities, but it’s not as easy as it seems. Now, I have April to nurse back to health and Peyton to take care of, too. I know this won’t be easy, but it’s what I was put here to do - help my family. There’s no better time to showcase that than right now, but it doesn’t mean I can’t be scared.

“Do you want us to take the baby for a few days?” Lexie asks, holding Peyton on her hip while Mark wheels in the chair that April will ride out in. 

“I-” I begin, not sure how to answer, but April cuts me off before I can finish.

“No,” she says, firmly, then reaches her arms out. She’s not aware she’s reaching in the wrong direction, though, but no one tells her right away. “We’ll take her. Can I have her, please?” 

Lexie makes eye contact with me, and I nod towards my wife. “You don’t need my permission,” I say, shrugging. “You heard her. We’ll take her home.” 

“Okay,” she agrees. 

“Let’s get you in the chair, Kepner, then we’ll get you that baby,” Mark says, trying to keep the mood light. “Sound good?” 

“Yes.” 

“Alright,” he says. “You need help getting up? You’ve been sitting for quite a few days. Or can you-”

“Nothing’s wrong with my legs,” she snaps, and I wince at her tone. Mark doesn’t deserve that, and she knows it. 

Dressed in street clothes that I brought from home, April presses her hands down and slowly scoots her legs across the mattress until they hang off the side. I watch as her arms tremble, and shake my head to myself. I’m not about to let her fall because she wants to be stubborn.  “Here, baby,” I say, coming up beside her with a steady hand in the middle of her back. “Let me help you.”

She takes a sharp inhale, ready to refute me I’m sure, but she doesn’t. Instead, she grips my hands with all her might and lets me lead her to the wheelchair. She descends slowly, puts her feet in the footrests, and demands Peyton immediately. 

“Can I have my baby now?” 

Lexie walks over and says, “Handing her to you now,” she says. “Here, careful. You got her? You good?”

“I know how to hold my child,” April grumbles, hands under Peyton’s armpits as she holds her close. Too close. Peyton squirms and wriggles to get down or at least sit more comfortably, but April keeps her pressed against her chest - arms strong and unrelenting. 

“You’re holding her a little tight, honey,” I say, placing one hand on the back of April’s head. 

“She’s fine,” she says. “I just need her right here. Okay? Is that fine? Can I make choices for my own child, please?” 

I sigh softly and avoid Lexie and Mark’s eyes as I position myself behind the chair to push. We go through the halls slowly while Peyton still fusses, but April doesn’t relax her grip. She presses her lips to the side of the baby’s head and keeps them there, almost as if she stops touching her in any way, her world will fall apart. As far as I know, that is how she feels, and I don’t have the right to take that away from her. 

When we get to the car, Lexie and Mark wait at the drop-off area as I roll April up to the door. 

“I gotta take her from you now,” I say, kneeling next the wheel of the chair. “She’s gotta go in her car seat.” 

“You don’t have to talk to me like that,” April says, quietly. “I’m not braindead.” 

I frown, frustrated at her dismissal of my attempts to be helpful and gentle. I know I can’t get angry with her, though. That wouldn’t be fair. I have no idea what she’s going through. 

I take Peyton and buckle her in the seat, then give a small wave to the couple standing a few feet away. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then,” I say to them. “For the appointment.” 

Mark nods, and Lexie waves back. They still stay and watch as April gets inside the car, though. She pushes herself up by the armrests of the chair, weak limbs shaking, and I step forward and support her elbows while she lifts her knees to climb inside. 

“You got it?” I ask, close to her face. 

“Yeah,” she says, then pats around near the door to find the seatbelt, so I hand it to her. I hear the buckle fumble around the holster for a long time, but when I reach to try and put it in, she snaps, “I can do it.” 

“Alright,” I say. “I’m coming around, then.” 

I close the passenger’s side door and turn around to catch Mark and Lexie’s eyes. “You guys gonna be alright?” Mark asks. 

I close my eyes, eyebrows raised, and take a deep breath. “We’ll be okay,” I say.

“You need anything, call,” he says. “Don’t hesitate. I’m serious.”

“I will,” I say. “Thank you. For everything.”

He nods, and Lexie comes to give me a big hug. I squeeze her tight and she smiles when we pull apart, and I’m on the brink of tears for some reason. I don’t think I’m letting myself realize how scared I truly am.

…

When we get home, Peyton is fussy on my hip while I help April in the door. The baby starts full-out crying when we get inside, but I don’t dare let go of April’s hand in fear she might fall over or trip on something in her way.

“She’s hungry,” April mutters, gripping me hard as she slips out of her shoes. “That’s her hungry cry. She needs a bottle.”

“Do you wanna just nurse her?” I ask. 

Her face crinkles up. “I can’t,” she says. “I’m on a ton of medication. You know that. I have to pump and dump… there’s formula in the cupboard, or cut up some fruit, maybe. I can just do it.”

“No,” I say. “I think you should lie down. It’s been a long day.” 

Even by just standing, she looks exhausted. But still, she fights me. “I can feed my baby,” she says, setting a hand on the dining room table for support.

“I can feed our baby,” I say. 

“Jackson,” she says. 

“April,” I respond, just as firmly. “Why don’t you go sit on the couch, and I’ll have her eat by you. Okay?” 

She pauses for a moment before saying, “Fine.” 

I make a warm bottle for Peyton who is still whining on my hip after helping April to the couch. She sits all the way to the right and then lays down, a few pillows under her head. She doesn’t close her eyes - she just stares with her hands folded over her ribcage, legs straight out. 

A few minutes later, I walk over and announce that I’m coming. “Want me to set Peanut on you?” I ask. “I can sit by your feet.” 

“Okay,” April says, voice softer now. She seems calm and sleepy, which is good. 

“Here we go,” I say, swooshing the baby through the air until she lands on April’s belly. Her legs bend over her mother’s stomach as she leans against the back of the couch, and April encircles her body with her arms. “There’s Mama. There’s your pretty little mama.” 

“Ma ma ma ma ma ma ma,” Peyton babbles, and April’s face softens a bit as she strokes our daughter’s skin. 

“Hi, honey,” she whispers. “I’m got you.” 

Peyton sticks the bottle in her mouth and smiles against it, then plunks to the side to rest on April’s chest. She lies on her back, still drinking, and April wraps her arms around the baby to keep her steady and close. When Peyton is finished with the bottle, she rolls onto her belly and nestles her cheek against April’s chest, closing her eyes almost straight away. 

“She’s going to sleep,” I whisper, holding one of April’s small, socked feet. 

She doesn’t reply. I look up to see that it’s because her own eyes have closed, and she’s drifting off, too. I smile softly at the two of them and relax for the first time since coming home, soothed for the time being that both of them are safe and somewhat happy. 

I let my mind go as blank as possible for a while, but it doesn’t last long. I pull out my phone after a few minutes and click on the Google app, where I type in my first question:

“How to describe things to a blind person” 

I scroll down until I find a WikiHow article with 8 steps and coinciding pictures. I click on it and skim through; there’s valuable information here that I’ll be able to use later, so I bookmark the page. I don’t have enough focus to read through it right now, so I go back to the homepage and type in something else. 

“How to take care of a blind person” 

I can’t help but worry that I’m in over my head. What if I’m not a good enough caretaker for her? I look over at my sleeping wife and can’t imagine doing something wrong that would be detrimental to her health. I would never forgive myself. I need to learn how to do this right, but I have no idea where to start. 

None of the articles help. All they do is make me frustrated and lead my mind to other things like, how will she read now? She’ll have to learn Braille. Who will teach her? Should I learn, too? How will she use her phone? How will she live a happy and fulfilled life without surgery?

I close my eyes and let the tears come. The last thing I want is for her to know I’m crying, but I figure it’s safe while she’s asleep. I cry for a long time without trying to stop the flow - I cry for all she won’t see and all she already has. I cry for the memories she has to hold onto, and the ones that have already left. 

When she and the baby start to wake up, I wipe my eyes. April’s arms tighten around Peyton instinctively and she blinks a few times, and the whiteness of her eyes catches me off-guard. I wonder when that will stop. 

I gently grab her ankle and run my thumb over the exposed skin. “Hey, bitsy-baby,” I say. “You have a good nap?”

“Mmm…” she groans, sounding tired still. “Where… Jackson?” 

“I’m right here, we’re on the couch. You got Peanut Butter right there with you, too.” 

At the sound of her nickname, Peyton pushes herself up and spins around so she’s face-to-face with her mother. She looks confusedly at her face and tries to make eye contact, puzzled when she finds it impossible.

“What is she doing?” April asks, turning away. “Is she scared? Jackson, don’t let her look at me.” 

“She’s not scared,” I say, stroking her shin. “She’s just curious. She’s getting used to it. Just… just give her a second.” 

We’re quiet for a while as Peyton stares at April’s face. She doesn’t touch her skin, she doesn’t make any sounds, she just looks. April blinks and resists the urge to shy away, and in a split second, the baby breaks into a huge smile. 

“She’s smiling at you,” I whisper, very softly, but April hears and smiles back - for the first time since it happened. 

“Is she?” she whispers in return, and I nod before realizing she can’t see me. 

“Yeah, she still is,” I say, filling the space, then reach over and tickle the baby’s back. In reaction to my touch, she flips around and gives me a pout - grumpy that I interrupted she and her mama’s soft moment. I can’t help but crack up at the expression on her face, letting out a full belly-laugh that feels good and breaks the tension in the room. 

“What?” April says, sitting up and bringing Peyton with her. 

“She just made a face that looked just like you,” I say, still chuckling. “It looked like this.” I mimic the face, then realize again. “Oh, shit.” I try and think of a way to describe it, but then decide on something better. “Wait. Give me your hands.”

She lifts her palms, and I take her wrists. I set her fingers on my face and she flattens them out, feeling the slopes and ridges of my features while I transform my expression into an exaggerated pout. A smile ghosts on her lips as she traces the wrinkles on my forehead, the way my lower lip sticks out, and the frown of my mouth. 

April giggles softly at first, her face turned just slightly to the left. Then, she starts to laugh harder, a little louder, until her whole face is scrunched with joy and the smile on her face looks like the one I’ve always known. The one I saw when I fell in love with her, and the one I’ve seen every day since. I see it again, and it sets off sparks in my chest. She’s still here. 

Her hands stop moving and I touch her face instead. I stroke her cheekbones with my thumbs and she leans against my palm, expression softening as she does. Peyton sits between us, chewing on the empty bottle, happy as can be. The three of us are together, and that’s all I can ask for right now. 

“You’re gonna be okay, bitsy,” I say, softly. But she hears me. “We can get through this. Me and you.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**APRIL**

The world looks no different when I’m awake than when I’m sleeping. That fact alone makes it hard to open my eyes in the morning. There doesn’t seem to be a purpose. 

They don’t have much feeling anymore anyway, because the nerves inside them are dead. The burnt skin surrounding is working its way back to life, but Mark is keeping an open mind to skin grafts if my body can’t do the work on its own. I’ve let him do whatever he wants. I’ll never see my own face again, but at least I can spare everyone else the horror. 

The undersides of my knees feel prickly, like I need to move. But that’s the last thing I want to do. I’d rather lay in bed forever with my eyes shut, salve soaking into my face like usual, thinking about nothing. 

I actively try and think about nothing, because it’s easier. When the thoughts trickle in, the restlessness is harder to bear. I’ve kicked the sheets off in a fit of rage before and told Jackson it was because of a dream. I’m not sure if he believed me, or if he just pretended to.

I’d know for certain if I could’ve seen his expression. I always used to read his face, but that’s impossible now. I can’t spend every waking minute with my hands on his features. Because of that, I’m missing out on so much; a huge sector of his personality came through his expressions. But now, that space is left blank and empty for me. I lost a piece of him when I lost my sight. 

I spend a lot of time listening. Jackson has taken a leave from the hospital to be at home with Peyton and me, though I’ve frequently spurned him this past week. It still doesn’t feel like this could possibly be happening to me, though it was only a few days ago. I can’t be sure of how many. Without being able to see, the days and nights run together and light means nothing at all. For all I know, it could be midnight right now. 

The sounds of the baby from downstairs tell me differently, though. I hear her babbling and squealing, and the low rumble of Jackson’s voice as he talks to her. I miss them so much it hurts, but I can’t force myself to go downstairs. I don’t want to sit there and just listen, or be told what she’s doing. I want to see it for myself. I want to see my baby’s face, and I want to see my husband smiling at her.

Without my sight, I live life from the sidelines. I wait for things to happen to me instead of happening to them. It’s even worse than that, though, really. It’s not that I’m waiting for something to happen, it’s that I hope nothing does. My life is a black pit, and I’m slowly sinking further into it. I can’t climb out because I have no motivation to do so. 

I turn onto my side and curl my legs close to my chest, wrapping my arms around my knees. I let out a long sigh and feel the urge to cry, but fight it. When the saltwater tears drip over my raw skin, it stings. Sometimes it’s a nice distraction from the pain on the inside, but I don’t want it right now. I’m complacent in my cocoon of numbness. 

Though I’ve just woken up, I try and drift off again. I stay still with my eyes closed for what seems like forever, but sleep won’t come. My body isn’t tired - it’s the exact opposite, actually, so there’s no way a nap is in the cards for me.

I keep my eyes closed, though, when I hear Jackson’s feet on the stairs. It’s quiet, which must mean the baby is going down for her late-morning nap. I’m right, because he doesn’t come into our room for a little bit, and I assume that means he was laying her down. 

His footsteps aren’t hard to miss when he comes through the door and near the bed. He thinks I’m asleep, I can tell by the gentle way he’s moving. 

“Honey…” he says, voice soft and unassuming. “It’s time to wake up.”

He runs his fingertips over the round of my shoulder and upper arm, then strokes the inside of my elbow. I don’t stir. I’m not sure why, but I don’t want to make this easy on him. It’s not easy for me, so I don’t see why it should be for anyone else. 

“April,” he says, voice a bit louder now. “We have an appointment with Mark in an hour. It’s time to get up and start getting ready.” He sits on the edge of the bed and rests a palm beside my opposite hip. “Baby.” 

“Hmm…” I say, flipping over. I don’t bother opening my eyes. I, of course, have no idea what they look like, but I can’t imagine it’s anything good. I get the feeling that the sight of them unsettles Jackson, and I don’t want that. What if he’s afraid of me? 

“There you are,” he says, and holds my chin between his thumb and first finger. He strokes the skin a few times and puffs a small bit of air from his nose. I think that means he smiled. “Can I give you a kiss?” 

Something pangs inside my chest when he says that. Before all this happened, I can’t remember the last time he actually asked to kiss me. We’d just make eye contact, usually look at each other’s lips, and go. Most of the time, it wasn’t even that much. We would just know. It was routine, it was habitual, it was expected. We’re married. Married people don’t have to ask for kisses. They’re simply given. 

“You can just kiss me,” I say, grumpily. Everything I say lately comes out grumpy. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. 

“I know,” he says, then presses his lips to mine carefully, like I might break.

“Then why don’t you just do it?” I say. “Why do you ask now?”

He strokes my hair that’s lying on the pillow, then traces the shell of my ear. He knows how sensitive my ears are, and I shy away from his touch there. I don’t want my senses to be woken up like that, not now. I’m too afraid of what I’ll experience once they come alive. 

“I don’t want to scare you when I do it,” he says. “You always jump when I touch you.”

“Because I can’t see you,” I say. “I can still feel you.” 

“Okay,” he says. “I won’t ask, then.” 

“Good.” 

He clears his throat and adjusts the way he’s sitting. I wonder where his eyes are. Is he looking at me? If so, what is he looking at? Does he hate what he sees? 

“We have Mark in an hour,” he reminds me. “Want me to help you get in the bath?” 

I frown. “I can do it myself,” I say, though there’s no proof of that. I’ve only bathed twice since last week, and both have been at his hand in our large bathtub. I don’t want that again, though. It makes me feel dependent and despondent. I can wash my body on my own. 

“I don’t know if that’s smart,” he says, standing as I begin to fidget. 

“I’ll be fine,” I say. “My eyes are broken, not my legs.” 

“I-” he begins, but cuts himself off. “I just don’t think…” 

“What?” I snap, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

He sighs, and I picture him closing his eyes in frustration. He’s fed up, but I don’t plan on giving in. If I don’t start now, when will I ever relearn to be independent? I can’t rely on him forever. That’s not how a marriage works; it’s supposed to be equal. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. “I can just run the bath. I don’t have to stay in there with you.”

“I don’t care if you stay,” I say. “I just want to do it myself.” 

I stand up and straighten my arms in front of me, stiff as boards. I spread my fingers out and move my arms back and forth, looking out for anything I might run into. As I take a step forward, Jackson guides me with a hand on the small of my back, but I move away from him. 

“I know the way to my own bathroom,” I say harshly. 

He takes his hand away. Even without sight, I can feel the hurt wafting from him in droves. I should stop taking out my anger on someone so innocent, but he’s closest. If not him, then who? I do enough to myself as it is. 

I take clumsy, disjointed steps to the bathroom. When I feel the doorjamb on either side, I clamber around the wall until I find the switch, then flick it on. As soon as I do, though, I laugh sardonically. Of course, there’s no change. I turn it back off and say aloud, “I’ll save us a lot on electricity.” 

“That’s not funny,” he says, then turns it back on. I can hear the sound of the switch.

“I don’t need it,” I say. “You know I can’t see shit, right?” 

“That’s not funny, April,” he says, referencing the lightness in my tone, I’m sure. “I need it. I’m staying.”

I purse my lips and find my way to the shower, maneuvering over the rugs and around the half-wall that it’s positioned behind. I pop open the glass door and work the handle, using muscle memory to turn it to the correct heat and pressure. I wait in silence, feeling Jackson’s presence, while the water heats up - undressing after a few moments of tension. I crumple my dirty pajamas into a ball and set them on the floor, then open the glass door again.

“Be careful,” he says, closer than ever. His voice sounds like it’s right over my shoulder, which is probably where he’s standing. 

“Jackson,” I snap, shivering from the draft. “Please.” 

He doesn’t say anything then. I hear him back up a bit to give me some space, and I’m satisfied because of it - I feel like I have room to take a breath. I widen my arms and feel my way inside the shower, gripping onto whatever I can find when I get a good hold. I lift one leg with my fingers wrapped around the bottom of a ledge, but when I try and follow with the other, my left foot slides forward and I slam face-first onto the floor. 

My heart stops beating for a moment as I lose my breath, completely stunned and silent. I caught myself with my forearms and elbows, my head didn’t hit, but my limbs are all tangled up and I have no way to get my bearings. Time moves slow as the hot water pelts my back and my skin stings with new wounds, then I start to cry like a child who’s fallen off their bike. More scared than hurt.

“April!” Jackson exclaims, and his footsteps pound the floor as he rushes over.

I let out a long wail as he picks me up from under the armpits and gets me to my feet. He reaches to shut the water off then holds me at arm’s length, probably checking me over for what damage I did to myself. 

“You’re okay,” he says, stroking my face. I’m trembling because now I’m not only cold, but wet and cold. “You’re okay. Barely bleeding, I swear. I’m just gonna get a towel to clean you up.” 

“If I’m barely bleeding, why do you need a towel?” I screech, wrapping my sore arms around myself. “I’m freezing!” 

“I’ll start the bath,” he says, then the water comes on. He wraps a fluffy towel around my shoulders while I wait, then holds my arms out straight while he examines my cuts. “You should’ve let me help.” 

I don’t respond. I keep my face turned away, eyes still leaking tears. I don’t have anything to say. It’s not that I think he’s wrong, it’s that I know he’s right. And I can’t bear it. 

“April, you have to let me help you,” he says. 

I still don’t acknowledge him. I refuse to look in his direction, I just stay sniffling towards the source of the water. I can’t even reach up and wipe my tears because the skin is too sensitive. I just have to let them fall. 

“Okay,” he says, a bit later. “Tub’s filled up.” 

He takes my elbow and I let him, stepping into the steamy water one foot at a time. He guides me between the shoulder blades as I sink lower, then stays close once I sit down. 

“Do you want me to wash you?” he asks. 

I shrug. I might as well let him, seeing as if I try and do it myself, I’ll probably mess up and cause yet another catastrophe. My arms throb as a reminder of the last one. 

I lean my head back while he shampoos and conditions my hair, and the silence is heavy between us. It usually passes like nothing - the quiet has always been comfortable. But at the moment, that isn’t the case. It’s quite the opposite, actually. Even not being able to see his face, I know there’s more he wants to say. I’m sure he can tell how tense I am, too.

I know he’s about to speak when he lets out a terse sigh. He swipes my wet hair off my forehead with a flat hand before saying, “April, from now on, I’m going to help you whether you want me to or not.” 

I keep my eyes closed and my arms wrapped around my knees, barely moving. He’s not finished, and it’s not worth it to interrupt. 

“You were this close to hitting your head. Imagine if you had. What would I have told Peyton? Your arms are all cut and bruised. I just… I can’t have you killing yourself on my watch.” 

My insides tingle with fury and pent-up frustration. He has no idea what it’s like to be trapped in here, a prisoner of my own head, unable to see the outside. He has no idea what it’s like to have a vibrant world ripped away because a mentally unstable man acted on an evil whim. Took his rage out on me. Jackson will never know that feeling, and I have to live with it for the rest of my life.

Sometimes, I wish I didn’t. 

With quivering shoulders, I work up the gumption to say, “I wish it would’ve killed me. I wish I would’ve just died. I can’t stand to live like this. This isn’t a life - this isn’t  _ my _ life. You don’t get it! You never will.”

He doesn’t say anything. It’s so quiet that it almost seems like he’s left, and fear finds its way to my gut. I sit up and hold onto the lip of the tub, swiveling at the waist to try and sense if he’s close.

“Jackson,” I say, urgency in my voice. “Are you still here? You can’t just… you have to say something.” 

“Sit down,” he says, and a mixture of relief and annoyance floods through me. He places his hands on my shoulders and gently presses me back into the water, and I comply. I don’t have much of a choice. 

By the charge in the air, I can tell he’s upset. That’s fine, because I’m upset with myself, too. I shouldn’t have said what I did - I’m pretty sure I don’t mean it - but there’s plenty of reason behind it. My life will never be the same. I don’t have a purpose here anymore. 

He washes my hair and what he can reach of my body, handing me a washcloth to do the rest. I do it habitually, not needing my eyes, and stand up when I’m finished - in the middle of the water, waiting for a towel to be wrapped around me. And eventually, one is.

He helps me get ready without offering any conversation. He helps me into yoga pants and a crew neck sweatshirt, careful of the seared skin on my face. He sits behind me and brushes out my hair, though I don’t need sight for that. Still, I let him. 

“What time is it?” I ask, after everything is done. 

“Almost 1,” he says. “We have to be there at 1:15. Do you wanna go wake up the baby while I get the car started?”

I frown. “I can’t do that,” I say. 

“I’ll help you down the stairs when it’s time,” he says. 

“No,” I say. “I’m not going to hold her without you there.” 

“April, you’re gonna have to tr-” 

“Try, and then what? Drop her? No, Jackson,” I say, then stand. I walk with purpose towards our bedroom door and end up smacking my face into the wall near the door. “Ouch, shit!” I say, features pinching. I rub my nose and back away from the wall, using my arms as guides after that. “See, I can’t even walk without running into something like an idiot. And somehow, you expect me to hold Peyton?” 

He doesn’t respond, but I hear him get up. He comes over and puts a hand on the small of my back, then nudges me onward. 

“Can you use words, please?” I say, dragging my feet. “You need to tell me where we’re going. This silence isn’t gonna work.” 

“We’re gonna get the baby,” he says. “Then, we’re gonna go.” 

I follow his lead into the nursery, where there’s no noise. Peyton must still be in the middle of her nap, and she won’t be a treat to wake up. I let Jackson do it, stepping back with my arms crossed, totally resigned. I still don’t like the thought of her seeing my eyes that are apparently stark white. I can’t imagine how unsettling that must be for a baby. 

“Peanut,” Jackson coos. I can almost picture him leaning over the crib, one hand on her little belly. “Time to get up. We gotta take Mama to the doctor.” 

He makes a small noise, and I know he’s picked her up. I hear her whine softly as she wakes up, and they move to the changing table on the far side of the room while I stay rooted in place. 

She starts to cry not long after - she hates having her diaper changed - and she doesn’t stop when it’s over. 

“Want Mama?” Jackson asks her, and his voice gets closer. “She wants you, mama,” he says.

I turn away, face downcast. “No, she doesn’t,” I say. “She’s scared of me. I’ll just make it worse.”

“She’s not scared of you,” he says. “She’s reaching for you right now. She wants you to hold her.” 

Peyton cries more insistently, grunting and apparently fighting against Jackson’s grip. I won’t take her, though. She may not be scared of me, but I still don’t like the way it feels when she’s in my arms. Not the way her weight feels; I love that. I don’t like the way I know she looks at me. I feel her studying me each time she’s in my arms, so I’ve begun to avoid it altogether. I don’t like feeling like a stranger to her.

“I don’t want to,” I say, petulantly. 

“She has to get used to it,” he says, reading my mind as always. “She’s not scared. She doesn’t think you’re a freak. She thinks you’re her mom, and something is different about you. She’s just trying to understand what it is.” 

“Yeah, well, so am I,” I say, and storm past him, out of the nursery. I head to the stairs but stop before I begin my descent, one hand gripping the knob of the banister with all I have. I’ve not yet gone down the stairs without his hand on my back, showing me the way. 

So, I wait. I wait until I hear footsteps on the carpet and a fussy baby from behind, then I feel his hand between my shoulder blades as he walks down beside me. I let out a terse breath and take them slow, one at a time, until we reach the bottom. 

He helps me tie my shoes. It’s humiliating, but he has to. Otherwise, we’ll spend all afternoon with me doubled over on the bench, losing track of my laces. 

“Everyone ready?” Jackson says, making the noise he always does when he hoists the baby on his hip. 

He cups the back of my head with one hand and kisses my cheek, and I don’t resist the urge to lean into him. It’s a strange contradiction, how much I miss his affection, yet have been spurning it all the same. In small doses, I can accept it. In large ones, it feels like it does when Peyton stares at me. Like he’s trying to get used to his new wife, while the old one is right in front of him. Staring at nothing. 

…

When we get to the hospital, I stay close to Jackson’s side and keep my eyes towards the floor, lids barely open. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, balancing Peyton on the opposite hip. He has his hands full, and if I let myself dwell on it, guilt creeps in. So, I try not to. I don’t know what I’d do without him here.

Jackson leads us to an exam room where Mark is already waiting. As the baby babbles in his arms, he guides me to an exam bed and helps me sit, then finds a seat against the wall and takes the baby with him.

“Alright, Kepner,” Mark says, and I feel that I’ve shrunk into myself. I don’t feel like me today. I feel like disappearing and never coming out. It doesn’t feel right that people are still able to see me while I can’t see them. There’s something not right about that. “How you feeling?” 

I shrug one shoulder and shake my head. I’m not up for small talk. 

“Just eh?” he says, assumably going through routine procedures that I can’t see. 

I can picture him in my mind’s eye, though, wearing dark blue scrubs, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly coiffed. I wonder how Jackson did his hair today - and I wonder what Peyton’s looks like. Did he remember to brush it down? How come I didn’t remember to ask? I don’t even think I’ve touched her today. I’m a horrible mother. 

“I’m fine,” I peep. 

“Your skin looks like it’s doing okay,” he says. “I could use a bit more improvement between your eyebrows, I’m not loving the patch-up there.”

“I was thinking that, too,” Jackson says, from the corner. 

My stomach twists. They’re talking about me like I’m not here. Without sight, it’s easy for me to become a simple fixture. Especially between two surgeons who know more about my case than I do. 

“I’m gonna look into a prescription for that,” he says. “Something to give your skin a little bit of oomph it can’t produce on its own. It’s strong stuff, though, so I gotta do blood tests first. Once they come back positive that you’ll be a good recipient, we can get you started. Then, hopefully we won’t have to do skin grafts at all. I’m trying to avoid those at all costs,” he says.

“I know,” I respond.

“So, I’m just gonna stick ya,” he says, sliding over on the rolling stool. “No big deal. Just a little-” 

“You don’t have to talk to me like that,” I say. My voice is calm and even, but I get my point across. I can tell by the sheet of tense silence that falls over the room. 

“Alright,” he says, after pulling it out. “Perfect. Got all that we need. I’m gonna send these to the lab, and I should get the results back within the next couple days. They have to go through a series of tests to see if you’re eligible.”

“What if I’m not?” I ask.

“You most likely are,” he says. “I don’t even wanna worry about the other yet. But if we have to, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

I nod and close my eyes. 

“How’s your pain?” he asks.

I shrug again. 

“Been taking your painkillers?” he says. 

“Yeah.” 

“Not enough,” Jackson chimes in. “Sorry, but she’s not. She should be taking more, at least in my opinion.” 

A moment passes where I’m not sure of Mark’s expression. I don’t know him like the back of my hand like I do Jackson.

“Are you getting through, though?” he asks. “Are you sleeping, or is the pain keeping you up?”

“I’m sleeping,” I answer. 

Jackson clears his throat. I grit my teeth together and will him to stop talking for me. My eyes might not work, but my voice is fine.

“I’m going to give you a referral to the hospital’s rehab specialist,” Mark says. “I think you could get some valuable information from her, and a lot of good resources.” 

I hear a pen scratching on paper, but stand up before he has a chance to finish. “I’m not going to rehab,” I say, taking two tiny steps forward. “I’m fine. I’m doing fine. I just want to go back home. I’m tired.”

“April, he’s gonna give you-” 

“I don’t want it,” I say. “I want to go home. Can we just go?” 

“I… sure,” Jackson says, then sighs deeply. “Alright, come on. We’ll see you, Mark. Give us a call when those tests come back.” 

“Will do,” he says. “And Kepner, I’ll have this number for you whenever you’re ready. Just give me the heads-up.” 

I don’t respond. I don’t think I have to.

…

When we get back home, Jackson keeps a hand on my back while I take off my shoes, and I let him. I stand in the entryway with no apparent purpose while he gets Peyton comfortable, then gravitate towards the stairs.

“Will you take me up?” I ask, speaking into the open air. I’m not sure where he’s standing. 

“What?” he says, moving further away. Due to the tiny stomps I hear, my guess would be that the baby’s getting away from him. “Why?” 

“I wanna go to sleep,” I say. “I’m tired.” 

“You were asleep all morning,” he says. 

_ No, I wasn’t,  _ I want to say.  _ I was lying there thinking how much I hate my new life. _

But I don’t say that. I keep my mouth shut, eyes open, drowning in blackness. My lack of response is enough to let him know that I don’t plan on budging. 

“Pey,” Jackson says, hurrying away. “Geez. You’re fast. Hey! Come back here.” 

“Jackson,” I say, insistently, still standing by the stairs. 

“The baby, April,” he says. “Why don’t you just stay down here with us? Lay on the couch while I make her some lunch?” 

“No,” I say. “I need silence. I want to be in bed.” 

“You’re gonna go crazy with all the quiet,” he says. “Why don’t we put on some music? A little classical, maybe? Pey loves that.” 

“I don’t want music. I want to go to sleep,” I say, and realize he’s not going to see my side. So, I shake my head and say, “Whatever. It’s fine.” 

I turn around and feel my way around the banister before my hands find the railing. I tighten my fingers around it and take the first step up, steadying myself as I go. 

“April, wait,” he says, voice drawing closer. “Come on. Just stay. We want you around.” 

“I’m tired,” I state, and keep walking. I almost expect him to follow me and help me in a way he didn’t initially want to, but he doesn’t. I climb the stairs all on my own, and I’m not sure where he is. I don’t know if he watches me from the bottom the whole time, or if he goes to collect the baby instead. 

When I get to the top, I press both hands to the wall while I make my way to our bedroom. I come close to knocking a frame off, but get inside the room successfully. 

There’s no way I can find my comfortable clothes, though. Jackson had helped me out of them, and I don’t know where he set them. So, instead, I strip down to my underwear and cami and get in bed without trying to change. 

As usual, I’m not sure how much time passes. But eventually, I hear footsteps on the stairs and Jackson clears his throat near the entryway. 

“Hey,” he says. “Me and Peanut are gonna go run an errand. We’ll be back in a bit.” 

I roll onto my back. “I don’t like being left alone,” I say. “Where are you going?”

“Just out,” he says. “She’s antsy. We’re gonna take Cork, too.”

“But I’ll be alone,” I say. 

“...no,” he answers. “I asked Izzie to come over and hang out while we’re gone.” 

“Jackson,” I say, a whining tone in my voice. “Why would you do that?”

“She’s your friend,” he says. “And she loves you. She wants to see you.”

“Well, I don’t want her to see me.” 

“Keep the door shut, then,” he says, tersely. “You can’t just hole up in there. Life is still here, it’s still going.” 

“Not for me, it’s not.” 

“Yes, it is,” he says. “If you’d let it. Me and Pey will be back in a while. You want this door shut?” 

“Yes.” 

“Alright,” he says. “I love you.” 

I inhale deeply and let it out with a long sigh. I know he loves me, and I love him, too. Very much. But right now doesn’t feel like the right time to say it, so I roll over and face the opposite direction and listen for when the door shuts. 

I try and fall asleep so I don’t hear Izzie come in, but it doesn’t work. She arrives while Jackson and Peyton are still leaving, and I hear them exchanging conversation one floor down. Peyton squeals happily when she sees her favorite friend, but I don’t even smile hearing it. 

I don’t want Izzie here. She and I are the two most optimistic, friendly people at the hospital. We go together perfectly, two peas in a pod - we’re so alike. But now, we couldn’t be more different. In all the places she’s light, I’m now dark. She can’t begin to fathom a pain like mine, and it’s not my responsibility to teach her how. 

“April?” I hear, a few moments later. The house is quiet - Jackson and the baby are gone. I feel a sort of uncertainty knowing they aren’t downstairs, since I haven’t spent a moment without them since it happened. “It’s Izzie.” 

I don’t answer. I want her to think I’m asleep so she’ll leave me alone. She doesn’t need to see me like this. 

“Jackson told me you’re awake,” she says. “Why haven’t you let me come see you?”

I roll over, taking the covers with me. 

“April,” she says, trying again a few beats later. “Why didn’t you want to see me?” 

“Because I can’t see anything,” I snap, surprising myself. 

“Oh… I…” she stammers. “I meant, why haven’t you wanted to be with me?” 

I press my lips together and tuck my hands under my chin, protecting myself. I bend my knees and curl into a ball, ducking my head so I’m all folded together. 

“I miss you,” she says. “I’ve been so worried. I cooked enough to feed an army. I brought it all over.” 

I stay in my ball, eyes shut, breathing slowly. I don’t want her to try and cheer me up, and I don’t need her sympathy.

“We’ve all been thinking about you at the hospital,” she continues. She’s persistent, I’ll give her that. “Mark hasn’t told us anything besides the fact that you’ll be okay, so don’t worry. I just wanna…” Her voice falls away before she restarts. “I miss seeing your face. Can I come in?” 

“No,” I say, voice muffled because of the covers. “I want to be alone.”

“April, if you’re worried about the way you look-” 

“I’m not,” I say. “I just want to be by myself. I’m tired, and I want to go to sleep. I appreciate you being here, but I would appreciate it more if you left me alone.” 

There’s only silence on the other end for a long time, then a deep sigh. There seems to be plenty of those in this house today. 

“Alright,” she says. “Well, I love you. Whenever you’re ready, I’m here. With Chinese food, ice cream and bad movies, like always.” 

She’s trying too hard. I don’t need to be babied. I’m blind, not an infant. With my lack of response, she eventually leaves and goes back downstairs, and I’m left in the room with only my thoughts to keep me company. I just wish they weren’t so loud. 

…

I wake up some time later to a hand on my shoulder and a soft voice near my head. I jump and gasp - I’d been in a deep sleep - and the voice continues. 

“It’s just me,” Jackson says. “We’re back. I got something for you, though, and I want you to see it. Will you come downstairs?” 

I really have to go to the bathroom, but I feel groggy and like I’m still stuck in a dream. I sit up slowly, one hand tightly gripping his as he supports my back and helps me to a standing position. 

“Bathroom,” I say, slurring. “What time...?”

“Around dinner,” he says. “How long you been out?”

“Don’t know,” I say, leaning against him while he leads me to the bathroom and helps me to the toilet. 

While I sit there, he keeps a hand on my shoulder and rubs his thumb in circles. It’s an intimate gesture, one that shows how deeply comfortable we are with each other, and I like it. 

When I stand up, I don’t move right away. I stay still for a moment and just breathe, smelling Jackson’s faint cologne and the warm, crisp smell of outside on his clothes.

“Hey,” he says, and takes me in his arms. He hugs me tight with both arms wrapped around my shoulders, and kisses the top of my head repeatedly. “I love you.” 

I lean my head against his chest and relax against him wholly, feeling my muscles slacken while he supports my weight. He runs his fingernails up and down my back, and I squeeze his waist reassuringly. This time, I say it back. 

“I love you, too,” I say. 

…

While Peyton plays in her bouncy seat, Jackson helps me down the stairs. 

“What is it?” I ask. 

With an arm around my hips, he pauses and kisses the swell of my cheek. Distracted, I lean into the kiss, but stretch my arms out straight in attempts to figure out what’s in front of me. 

“Lower,” he says.

I walk forward and do as he says, then run into something with my thighs. He lets go and lets me figure it out on my own - and I’m fully concentrated while running my hands over the smooth surface. It feels like polished wood, and it’s cool to the touch. I move one hand sideways to find where it ends, discovering that there’s a cutoff that leads to second level. 

Suddenly, feeling the slope of the cover, I know what it is. I should’ve recognized it sooner - I used to have one growing up that I used until I was a teenager. 

“A piano,” I say, very quietly. I take a step back. I don’t want to touch it anymore. 

“Yeah,” Jackson says, sounding pleased and excited. “I remember you told me you once knew how to play. I thought it might be something fun for you to learn how to do again.” 

I curl my fingers up and bunch them into fists, bending my elbows to keep my arms by my chest. I take another step away from it and bump into his chest, unable to go any further. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“You shouldn’t have,” I say. 

“I wanted to,” he says. 

“It’s stupid,” I spit. “It was a waste of money. I can’t read music, it’s not like I can ever be good again.” 

“April,” he says, sounding shocked that I’m reacting the way I am. “I thought you’d like it. You don’t need to be able to see. You can just play.” 

“What, because I’m Mozart?” I say, voice trembling with the onset of tears. “No, I can’t. I’m not some amazing prodigy. I’m not some miracle. Don’t you think I’d still be able to see if my body were capable of miracles?” 

“Playing the piano isn’t…” he says, trailing off. 

“I don’t want it,” I say. “I won’t use it. I don’t want to be reminded of how incapable I am. I can’t even see the keys. How am I supposed to play?”

“Babe, Beethoven was deaf and he-” 

“I’m not Beethoven!” I shout, and that makes the baby cry. 

Jackson walks away to assumably pick her up and comfort her, and I stay right where I am. I don’t move closer or further away from the piano, but it feels like the literal elephant in the room. Standing there, breathing heavily, waiting for someone to make a move. 

Peyton whimpers and Jackson shushes her. I cross my arms and hunch my shoulders forward, shrinking into myself. I don’t like the position I’ve been put in. He’s expecting too much of me. I went blind a week ago, and now he wants me to be Stevie Wonder. 

“I don’t-” I begin, but the phone ringing cuts me off. The new noise upsets the baby and she starts fussing again, louder than before. 

“Can you get that?” Jackson says, voice risen above her cries. 

“I’m blind!” I retort. “I don’t know where the phone is.” 

“Here,” he says, and opens my hand to drop it in my palm. “Take it.” 

He walks out of the room with our screaming baby and I fumble while trying to pick up the call. I swipe the wrong area of the phone and it takes me a few tries before the ringing stops and I lift the device to my ear. 

“Hello?”

“Kepner?” 

“Speaking.” 

“It’s Mark,” he says, though I already knew. He clears his throat. “Uh, any chance you and Avery could make it back in to the hospital today?” 

I remember what Jackson said - it’s dinnertime. Peyton is fussy because she’s tired and hungry, and our day is ending. Going out again will mess it all up. 

“No, not really,” I say. “Why?” 

He clears his throat again, which strikes me as odd. He’s not usually one for nervous tics. 

“Your test results came back. I put a rush on them. And I’d like to discuss them in person, if possible.” 

“Well, it’s not,” I say, at wit’s end. “Mark, you can just say it. It’s me. I’m a doc…” I stop mid-sentence and think about what was about to come out of my mouth. “I was a doctor, too,” I finish. 

“I know,” he says. “It’s not that. I just think it’d be better if you were here.” 

“I don’t,” I say. “We have a fussy baby who needs to go to sleep, I’m sure you understand the struggle. I have a right to know my own results, though, so please tell me.” 

“April,” he says, and it comes as a shock. He rarely ever calls me by my first name. “You’re not eligible for the medication I wanted to put you on.” 

“What?” I say, steadying myself as I bump into the wall. I’m used to walking around while I’m on the phone, but I force myself to stay still. “What are you talking about?” 

“I can’t start you on it…” he says, seemingly steeling himself for what comes next. “Because you’re pregnant.” 


	8. Chapter 8

**JACKSON**

When we found out April was pregnant with Peyton, I can still remember the look of pure joy on her face and how light my heart was. She leapt into my arms and I spun her around, laughing into her neck as she held me as tightly as she could. 

I’m standing by the beautiful, new piano and staring at April’s back while she’s on the phone. I keep one hand on the cool surface and force my frustration down as the muscles in her shoulders tense. I don’t know who’s on the other line, but whatever news they’ve given her must be upsetting. She barely sounds like herself. 

Her voice is hysterical and afraid before she hangs up, and when she turns around, her white eyes look right through me. For a fleeting moment, I’m glad she can’t see my face because I’m sure it’s horror-struck and ashen. But as soon as the thought crosses my mind, I whisk it away.

“I can’t get on the medication,” she says. 

“What?” I say. “Was that Mark?” 

She nods and goes to set the phone down, but misses the piano entirely so it clatters to the floor and bounces a few times. She jumps from the sound, and I do, too. I don’t move to pick it up, though, she does. I keep my eyes on her and wonder what the next move is. 

“Yes,” she answers.

“Why can’t you take it?” I ask. 

“Because, Jackson,” she says. “I’m pregnant. You got me pregnant.”

Her words ring through my mind as I stand in their wake, stunned. The same ones echo from about two years prior, when we were out to dinner with Mark and Lexie. I had ordered April a glass of merlot, her favorite, and she softly rested her hand on my wrist and shook her head.

“What?” I’d asked. She’d been busy talking, so I took it upon myself to order for us both. I knew her well; I knew what she liked.

“I can’t have that,” she whispered, eyes twinkling. 

“Why?” I said. 

Her cheeks flushed pink as she fought a gleeful smile. She was trying to keep it between us; it wasn’t yet news meant for Mark and Lexie.

“Because,” she said. “I’m pregnant. You got me pregnant!” 

There’s a stark contrast in tone to the way she says that statement now. Our lives are completely different, and instead of it being happy news - this time, it tears her to the ground. 

Peyton had been so wanted. We had wished for her, dreamed of her, planned extensively for her arrival. We pored over baby name books for days, and read everything we could about being new parents. This feels nothing like that. Though it can’t be bigger than a bundle of cells, I feel sick at what an inopportune time this baby has found us in. 

Everything seemed to fall into place when April told me she was pregnant the first time. Everything else faded away, retreated to the sidelines, because we had a baby coming. That was all that mattered. It was our dream, and it was becoming a reality. 

This is so much different. 

We’d talked about having another baby when Peyton turned two. It was a loose plan, but it was something. It feels like forever that we traded those words in bed, with our little girl between us. I think I also said something along the lines of wanting a million more if they were anything like April, and that still holds true. For me. 

But judging by her face, she doesn’t feel the same. Her skin is red, and there’s a vein in her forehead that looks near to explosion. The tension in the air simmers, and I’m not sure what will crack it until something does - when April drops the phone again and it breaks to pieces against the hardwood floor, battery pack coming out with batteries spilling all over. 

Reacting to the loud noise, Peyton starts to cry. But at the same time, April makes a sound I’ve never heard come from her - some sort of inhuman grunt mixed with a growl, all the while her teeth are clenched tightly together. Her cheeks bulge, her hands are bunched into fists, yet she stays rooted in the same spot.

“April…” I say, walking closer. I grip her upper arms and she thrashes her head to one side, fighting my grip. I don’t hold tight, I let her break loose - and as she gets louder, Peyton does too. 

“I can’t,” she says, finally stopping the noise. Peyton is still crying, though, and I don’t know who to comfort. I’m not sure what April is capable of right now, but the baby is despondent. I don’t want to hold her while April is behaving in such a volatile manner, though. 

I turn around and look the baby in the eye. “It’s okay, P,” I say. “It’s okay. Don’t be scared.” 

She stops crying and just whimpers, staring at me with shiny, blue eyes. She reaches her arms out to be lifted up and held, but I can’t do that for her at the moment. 

“Daddy’ll come get you in just a minute,” I say. 

“It’s your fault,” April says, looking in the wrong direction. In any other instance but this, her lack of eye contact would be funny. I’d turn it into a joke. But not now. 

“What are you saying?” I ask, and she turns her head to look in the correct spot. 

She starts to cry. Big, fat tears roll down her cheeks and over her mottled skin, slipping past her parted lips. All I want to do is cross the room and hold her, but I know she won’t let me. She’s nearing the deep end, about to fall in. The best I can do is talk her down from the ledge.

“I don’t know,” she sobs, nearly screams. “I don’t know! I don’t fucking know!” 

“Bitty,” I say, concerned now. I’ve never seen her act this way, and she’s scaring the baby. Peyton has begun to cry again - the cry that lets me know she’s scared. “Bitty, you have to calm down. You’re scaring the baby.”

“I’m scaring the baby?” she says, voice trembling as it’s reached the top. I back away and pick Peyton up, and April takes a step forward and bangs into the piano accidentally. She stops moving, rubs the spot she hit, and leans forward with her elbows on the surface as I try and soothe our child. “Won’t it be great when we have two babies crying, and a blind mother who can’t take care of them? Won’t it be great with me just sitting there, and you having to do all the work? While I can’t even watch? I just have to fucking sit there?” 

“That’s not true,” I say. “Stop talking like that. That’s not how it will go.”

“Yes, it will,” she says. “I can’t even pick Peyton up.”

“You could, if you’d try,” I say. “It’s just like before. It’s no different. Why do you have to see to pick her up?”

“Imagine if I dropped her!” April screams, and Peyton clutches at the neck of my t-shirt and sobs right into my ear. With both of them going at full-blast, I might be deaf by morning. It’s clear where Peyton got her lungs. 

“You won’t drop her,” I say. “You’re just using that as an excuse because you’re scared.”

“Of course I’m scared,” she says. “I’m not half the mother I was. Not anymore. That was what… I used to be so good. And now I’m just… this. This blind, incapable lump who can’t even look her daughter in the eye! Do you know how that feels? Do you really think I can handle that with another baby?”

“You’re not even trying,” I say. 

“She’s about to turn one,” she says, as if I hadn’t spoken. “And I won’t see it. Do you realize I’ll never get to see her blow out the candles? And if we have this baby, I won’t see them at all? Not once?” 

One word sticks out from that tirade for me:  _ if _ . 

“April,” I say.

“What?” she says. 

“What do you mean?” I ask. “The way you’re talking… what are you saying?” 

She wraps her arms around herself and holds tight, face crumpled beyond recognition. Peyton still has her face buried in my neck, clutching me with all her might. She doesn’t recognize this version of April, and I don’t either. I thought she’d been different right after discovering the blindness, but that was nothing compared to what I’m looking at right now. 

“How can I love a baby that I don’t even know?” she asks, voice still raised. 

Peyton pushes herself closer, as close as she can possible get. She wraps her arms around my neck and trembles, whimpering, “Dada dada dada dada,” in the midst of all her sobbing. 

I rub her back. I can’t do much more at the moment. I still don’t understand what April is getting at - or, really, I don’t want to.

“How can I love a baby I’ve never seen?” she demands, taking a step back. “I can’t. I can’t do that. It wouldn’t even feel like they were mine.” 

I hold our daughter closer, wishing she wasn’t privy to all this. I know she doesn’t understand the words April is saying, but she feels the thick tension just as I do. She hears the pitchy, unstable tone of her mother’s voice. I don’t want her to feel scared of April, but I can’t do much to resolve the situation. The best place for her at the moment is in my arms. There isn’t another option. 

“What are you saying, April?” I ask, once again. “You don’t want to terminate, do you?” 

I don’t know,” she says, backing up until she runs into the wall. Her head knocks against it and bounces once, and she winces without making a sound. “I don’t know. But I don’t think bringing a baby into the world right now is a good idea.” 

“Does anyone think it is?” I say, adjusting the baby in my arms. “No one ever feels ready. It’s scary and life-changing, and it feels like nothing ever goes right. It’s not like the movies, we’ve said that before. Everyone has hardships they go through, but the end result is so beautiful.” 

“Not everyone’s situation is quite as drastic as this,” she says. 

I feel lost, crestfallen and helpless. Between us, she’s never the one without hope. She’s always been the one to offer it, sometimes forcing me to listen. I’m not used to being on the other side of the equation, and I’ve found I don’t favor it. She’s more stubborn than me, and ten times angrier.

“Just look at her, April,” I say, facing the baby outward before realizing what I’ve asked.

“I wish I could!” she screams, and Peyton scrambles to turn around, hiding against my chest as April lashes towards us - off by a lot. “Fuck you, Jackson.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, getting angry because of how she’s reacting. She has no right to take this out on me, no matter how upset she is. I didn’t do anything wrong, yet I’m the one who’s shouldering the brunt of her pain. “Stop it, April. Just stop it.” 

“What would you like me to stop?” she asks, facing blossoming red. “Being blind? How about I try?”

I realize that no matter what I say, I’m not going to win this. I come to the conclusion that this is a winnerless argument anyway, and it seems at this point we’re only out to hurt each other. 

“Maybe you should pray,” I say, knowing how it usually helps her. I have no doubt she’d enjoy talking to just about anyone other than me right now, and God is probably the best option. 

“Because that’ll fix everything, right?” she spits. “Is that what you think, when it comes to me and religion? Is that your solution when I get to be too much for you?” 

“Why are you putting these disgusting words in my mouth?” I ask. “You know that’s not true. I know you don’t mean that.” 

“I’m not praying anymore!” she bellows. “I’m done with it. Obviously, God hates me. God made me blind and pregnant with a child I don’t want. A child I can’t take care of. He made sure I’ll never see my firstborn’s face ever again, or my husband’s, for that matter. So, why should I talk to Him when all He wants to do is shit on my life? He doesn’t give a fuck about me, so I don’t give a fuck about Him.” 

As I look at my wife standing across from me in the room we’ve spent so much time in, I feel something I’ve never felt before in regard to her. Fear. I don’t know what she’s thinking, and I don’t know what she’ll do next. She’s never been the ‘loose cannon’ type, but at the moment she’s behaving more like that than not. She’s flown off the handle, lost the ability to be reasoned with. This isn’t the April I know. This isn’t the April I married.

Or maybe, now, it is.

That fact sits with me like a hot stone on an even hotter day. It burns when I touch it, and I have to set it down. I can’t consider that at the moment, all I can do is walk away. This won’t be resolved tonight. 

But I can’t walk away. It’s not that simple anymore. She can’t get around the house on her own yet, and I should help her. 

“Come on,” I say, walking forward to take her arm. Peyton pulls away as we get closer, and I pretend not to notice. It makes me feel too sick. 

“No,” April grunts, belligerent. She rips her arm out of my grip and cradles it close, glaring at what I assume she thinks is my face, but it’s not. She’s looking too far to the right. 

“Okay, then,” I concede. “Then, me and Peanut are gonna go make dinner. I’ll call you when it’s ready.” 

I look over my shoulder on the way to the kitchen to see April leaning against the piano. She has her hands braced in front of her, head hanging down, back heaving with deep breaths. What I want most is to go over and comfort her, but I think both of us could use a step away. Peyton, too. 

The kitchen is quiet save for music I put on in the background, and I set the baby in her high chair with some diced-up fruit. Before I start on dinner, I sit across from her and look at her face with my chin rested in my hands, and she meets my eyes while shoving a fistful of strawberries in her mouth.  “I’m sorry Mommy scared you,” I say, very quietly, so April won’t hear from the other room. “She didn’t mean it.” 

I reach over and fix a tuft of her hair, smoothing it out of her face. She leans into my touch and grins with her eyes shut, softly. Nothing huge. 

“She loves you,” I say. “Very much. We both do. You know Mama and Dada love you?” I ask, and she extends a handful of squishy fruit to feed it to me. “Thank you,” I say, taking a small bite.

“Dada,” she babbles, picking up a blueberry with her pudgy thumb and first finger. “Dada, dada, dada, dada.” 

“I know,” I say, then hold her head in my hands while leaning forward and kissing the top. She smells like she always has. April says the scent is more like mine, but I could swear it mirrors hers. “I wish you didn’t see all that. Let’s agree to just forget about it, okay?”

My worst fear is having Peyton be afraid of April because of how she’s behaving during this period. April won’t hold her as it is, but it would kill her if Peyton preferred me once she was ready. I can’t have that happening, but April is definitely not making it easy on any of us. Namely, herself. 

I leave Peyton in her high chair while I make Caesar salads for dinner. I let my thoughts wander while I chop up the lettuce and add all the ingredients, all the while wondering what April is doing in the living room. It’s silent out there, so she’s not causing any trouble, but that almost makes me more nervous. She’s not a child, though, so I leave her be. We both needed space, and since she’s giving it to me, I should give it back. 

But once the salads are ready, I have to call her. 

“April,” I say, voice risen enough so she’ll hear it. “Dinner’s ready.” 

I put a few croutons on the baby’s tray and reload her with fruit and yogurt, all the while getting no response from my wife. I furrow my eyebrows, curious, then look at the baby with a wondering expression. 

“April?” I call again. “Time to eat. Do you need me to come get you?” 

After a few beats, I still hear nothing. So, I get up, run my hand over Peyton’s hair casually, and walk out of the kitchen to investigate. When I turn the corner to the living room, I find April on the floor amongst the rubble of the phone, and for a fleeting moment fear spurs throughout my entire body. But after a second passes, I realize she’s only sleeping.

I kneel down and touch her side, but get no response. She twitches a bit, stirs, but that’s all. Her hands are tucked by her face and her knees drawn up, face free of the worry it had been riddled with just a bit ago. She looks more like herself now. This is my wife. 

“April,” I whisper, stroking her side with my thumb. “Itty-bitty.” 

She doesn’t wake, though. She must be exhausted. She used to be the light sleeper between us, but since her world has been cloaked in darkness, almost nothing will wake her. When she’s out, she’s gone until she decides not to be. 

So, I pick her up gently and bring her to the couch. She adjusts once she’s flat on the cushions, nestling her head close to the pillow, and I cover her with a soft throw. I kiss the side of her head and sigh deeply while looking at her face, wondering how I could love someone so much in the midst of all this strife. 

…

The next day when we have to go back to the hospital, April is in a horrible mood. 

“Peyton shouldn’t come with us,” I say to her, laying out the clothes she requested. A pair of jeans, a white camisole, and a dark blue cardigan. “It’ll be one less thing to think about.”

“Where do you suggest she go, then?” April snaps. “To the mall?” 

“She’s napping,” I say. “We can just call Izzie and see if she can hang out for a little bit while we’re gone. Pey probably won’t even wake up.” 

“No,” she responds, offering no further explanation. 

“No?” I say. “Just no.” 

“Yes, no,” she says. “I don’t want that. We can just drop her at the hospital daycare.” 

“No,” I say, mimicking her tone from before. “They’re dealing with a stomach flu outbreak. I can’t have that on my hands right now.” 

“Right, because you already have enough to do, taking care of the one blind mouse,” she says, biting my head off. “I don’t want Izzie here. Izzie is gonna wanna talk to me and catch up and find out how I’m doing. You wanna know how I’m doing? Like shit! I’m in pain all the time and I can’t see. And as for the cherry on top, now I’m-” 

“Please,” I beg. “She can be here in five minutes. You don’t even have to see her.” 

“Lucky for me, I can’t see anything,” she quips. 

“You know, you’re not being funny when you say stuff like that.” 

“Do you think I’m trying to be?” she chides. 

“I know you are,” I say. “I know you’re trying to dig the knife in deeper by throwing in those stupid, offensive jokes. I wish you’d just stop.” 

“Some of us have different methods of coping,” she says. “Maybe this just happens to be mine.” 

“It’s not,” I say. “Stop it with the front. You do it to make me feel bad. And you know what? It works. So, I’d appreciate it if you’d fucking stop.” 

She gives me a hard look, mouth set in a frown, jaw clenched. “Fine,” she says, buttoning the buttons on her sweater wrong. I don’t bother with correcting her in fear of losing a hand. “Call Izzie. See if I care.” 

Bile rises in my throat. With every passing hour, she pushes me further and further away. I know I have to keep trying to break down that wall, but she makes it so difficult with how nasty she can be. She’s acting worse than a petulant child; she’s an angry one. A furious one. One that hates her life and everyone in it. And that means I’m not only frustrated, but hurt. Hurt for myself and hurt for Peyton, who has no idea what’s going on or why Mommy is acting the way she is. 

“Alright,” I say. “Finish getting dressed. I’ll call her.” 

On the phone, Izzie says she can be over in ten minutes, which is just enough time to get April down the stairs while she pretends she doesn’t need help, and assist her with shoes. She refuses to wear slip-ons, because that would be much too easy, and instead insists on boots with complicated ties and buckles. If I didn’t step in, we’d be sitting on the bench for weeks, at least. 

When Izzie arrives, she doesn’t bother with knocking. “Hey, guys,” she says, breezing inside. 

April jumps and turns away from the sound, closing her eyes as she does. She frowns deeply, hands lifting from her boots as she wordlessly tells me to finish them up. 

“Hey, Iz,” I say, tying April’s laces. “Thanks for coming.” 

“Yeah, no problem,” she says, then chuckles. “As soon as you guys leave, I’m gonna sneak up to Peanut’s room and wake her up so I can play with her.” 

I laugh along, but April snarls, “Don’t do that. You’ll mess up her whole nap schedule and she’ll never go back down for us tonight.” 

“She was just kidding,” I say, one hand on her knee.

“I don’t care,” April says. “She’s not the one who will have to put her to bed later.” 

I want to say,  _ and you’re not, either _ , but I don’t. I keep that to myself. 

“Don’t worry, honey,” Izzie says. “I really was just kidding. I won’t even go up there. I’m not gonna disturb her, I’ll just chill down here with the baby monitor until you guys get back.” 

“That works,” I say, standing and helping April up, too. 

She doesn’t have anything more to add, apparently, and I find myself wishing I had a moment alone with Izzie. It’s the first time I’ve ever wished for something like that, and I don’t really know what to do with it. I’ve always wanted April in the room, preferred her presence over her absence, but now I need someone to listen who will understand. Though I’ve spent every day around April and Peyton since the accident, I don’t remember a time where I felt more isolated. 

“You just going in for a checkup, or…?” 

April tightens her grip on my waist and I throw Izzie a sidelong glance. By the nature of her eye contact, I can tell she knows I want to say more than I’m given the space for. 

“Yep,” I say. “Mark’s gonna redress those burns and take a look at how the healing’s coming along. We shouldn’t be more than two hours.” 

“Sounds good,” she says, then touches April’s shoulder. I tense because of it; Izzie hasn’t been here the last few days, she doesn’t know what a short fuse April operates on. I do. “April, you look great. Really.” I see her eyes flit to April’s mismatched buttons, but she says nothing. I commend her for that.

“Well, I wouldn’t know, would I?” April jabs, shying away. 

“I know,” Izzie says, voice calm and even in the way I’ve lost the ability for. “That’s why I’m telling you. You look good. Your hair is growing back, your skin looks like it’s healing, and I’m glad you’re feeling okay enough to get out of the house.” 

April grunts in response, and I feel an unyielding gratitude to Izzie for saying those things, and also for not faltering to April’s icy exterior. April has to realize that it’s not going to keep her afloat for the rest of her life, though it’s worked at home for the past few days. Worse since we found out about the pregnancy. I can’t get a word out without her biting my head off. 

“Thanks,” I tell Izzie, one last time before we head out the door. Once we get in the car, April fumbles with the buckle until I help her click it, then I back out of the driveway so we can make our way to the hospital. 

When we get there, she cowers close to my side like usual, head down. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and avoid anyone’s passing stares - however subtle they may be. I stroke her skin softly, reminding her that I’m here and she’s safe, and she hugs my waist with both arms to stay as close as possible. 

“You’re okay,” I say quietly, with the exam room in sight. Mark is waiting outside, waving in a friendly manner. It’s not exuberant or anything like that; it’s just enough. Any more happiness, and it would be inappropriate.

“Hello there, Averys,” he says, welcoming us inside before shutting the door. Once we’re in the quiet sanctuary, April breaks from me and feels her way to the exam table. She climbs up and faces outward while I get comfortable in a chair against the wall. “How are we doin’ today?” 

I wait for April to answer, but she doesn’t. She stares at the floor and swings her legs slightly, arms crossed over her abdomen. Following the strange, empty pause, I figure I’m the one who should answer. 

“Uh, could be better,” I say, clearing my throat. 

Mark looks at me, interest piqued. “Yeah,” he says. “I assume the news I shared with April came as a shock. I guessed you guys weren’t exactly… trying.” 

“No, we weren’t,” April cuts in, voice sharp like a knife that’s been sheathed until now. “Not at all.” 

Mark nods. “I understand, and I’d like to share with you some alternate routes we can take re: dealing with the skin on your face,” he says. “There are other-” 

“No,” she says. “I want the medication we talked about.” 

“Well, given the fact that you’re pregnant, that’s not possible,” Mark says. “It would do harm to-” 

“You don’t get it,” April interrupts. “I don’t plan on going through with this pregnancy.”

Mark sits there, stunned, for a moment before he says anything. His eyes dart to her, where the rest until he looks to me - disbelief transforming his features. 

“You don’t?” Mark asks, still shocked. 

“Why do you say it like that?” April asks. 

Mark straightens on the stool he’s sitting on and tries to steel himself, though it’s clear he’s been sent reeling by her statement. I hadn’t heard her say it in such plain terms until this point, but I do my best to hide my surprise. I should’ve seen it coming. I can’t begin to process it, though. 

“I… I wasn’t saying it in any way,” Mark says. 

“Good,” she says. “Because it wouldn’t be very professional if you did. I’m your patient. You have to treat me as such, or I should just switch doctors.” 

“You and I both know that wouldn’t be in your best interest,” Mark says. “So, let me clarify - you plan on terminating the pregnancy?” 

April sits there on the exam bed, spine straight as a rod, and nods. 

Mark writes something on the clipboard, and I let my mind stray from the situation at hand. I never thought we’d be in a position like this; where I was fighting for April to regain her faith, and she was pushing against me with all her might. Imagining April even speaking aloud the word ‘abortion’ doesn’t feel right. It feels blasphemous, almost, but I have no say in the matter. Though it’s half my baby, it’s her body entirely. What she wants to do with it is up to her. I don’t want to hold control over her choices, and I would never try. 

But the thought of a life we created together being extinguished is enough to make me sick to my stomach. I imagine Peyton at home, sleeping soundly, and the thought of harm coming to her makes my world flip on its head. There’s a baby inside April right now - however flat her stomach - but soon, there won’t be. I can’t wrap my head around that fact at all. 

“Alright,” Mark says, and I hear a hint of regret in his voice. He doesn’t like this, either, but that’s not something he’d ever admit aloud. He’s technically not allowed to, because April is his patient. But I’m sure he wouldn’t even say it to me in confidence. He respects the both of us too much to insert himself. “Well, then that needs to happen first, before I can write you a prescription. Once the procedure is done, I’ll see you back here and we can get you started.” 

“Okay,” April says, and her voice is weak. 

“How are you faring with everything else?” Mark asks. “Loss of sight, how’s it affecting your mental health? I have the number for the rehab right here, if you feel you’re ready to take it.” 

“I don’t need it,” April says. “I’m perfectly fine. I’m dealing with being blind just how you’d expect me to. It’s not a walk in the park.” 

Mark raises his eyebrows and nods. But, quietly so she won’t hear, I reach across and take the business card from him - passing it right in front of April without her knowing. 

…

When April calls to schedule the appointment, I make it a point to remove myself from the room. She did it immediately after we got home, shooing Izzie out of the house with barely a goodbye before enlisting my help for dialing a number I didn’t want to call. 

But I did dial it, because it’s what she wanted. It wasn’t up for further discussion, and it doesn’t feel right for me to press the issue. What kind of man would that make me if I asserted my power over her decision, her autonomy? That’s not who I am. So, I take on the role of a bystander. I don’t have much choice.

“Jackson?” she calls, assumably after hanging up the phone. 

I’m in our bedroom now, sitting in the armchair near the window, watching the rain come down. “In here,” I answer. “Bedroom. Do you need help?” 

I hear a bit of a ruckus as her clunky footsteps get closer, but then she appears in the door. 

“Here, baby,” I say. “By the window.” 

She makes her way over, slowly but surely. She runs into my legs, then backs up with her arms stretched out to either side for guidance.

“It’s in two days,” she tells me. “The appointment.” 

“Okay,” I say, heart heavy. 

“Will you take me there?” 

“Of course,” I answer, right away. 

“Okay,” she replies, then hovers like she isn’t sure what to do with herself. She clasps her hands together, shifts her weight from foot to foot, and closes her eyes out of what seems like self-consciousness.

“Do you want to sit with me?” I ask, bearing the risk of her refusal. She hasn’t wanted to be close lately, as much as I’ve offered. 

She doesn’t answer with words. Instead, she feels for my body and lowers herself onto my lap, curling up like she always used to. She tucks her head in the crook between my shoulder and neck, and presses her forehead to my pulse while bending her knees. She doesn’t need to speak for me to know what she’s thinking, because the same thoughts are running through my mind, too. 

…

The days before the appointment pass quietly. It’s not worth it to talk about anymore, because all we’ll do is run it into the ground. I know she doesn’t plan on changing her mind, and I don’t plan on forcing her hand. 

The two days are spent mourning something that isn’t yet gone. The presence is palpable in the air, inside every room in the house. Like another member of the family, a new baby, has arrived. But a new baby will never fill this space.

Neither of us bring it up. We don’t talk much at all, actually, at least not to each other. Peyton gets the same attention as she always would, and the house calms down in terms of fighting. I’m glad for that. The baby doesn’t need to be subjected to those blowouts - not now, not ever. 

As the hours fly by and the day creeps closer, the dread in my stomach twists tighter. Before I know it, it’s the night before and the sun has already gone down. By the next morning, we’ll be headed to the hospital to have the termination done. Izzie is coming over to watch the baby, assuming that we’re going to another burn appointment. But that’s far from the truth. 

April tries to help me clean up dinner as best she can, and though she fumbles and drops things, I appreciate her efforts. She gets tired fast, though, and rests against the counter with her weight braced forward. It reminds me of the way she’d been standing at the piano that one incendiary evening, and the image bolsters its way into my mind. The way her face looked when she was screaming at me, the creases of anger on her mangled forehead, how her hands bunched and clenched. I don’t ever want to see her like that again. And if removing this fetus from her body is what it will take to make her somewhat okay with life again, then that’s what we should do.

It isn’t late by the time I’m ready for bed. The baby is already down and the kitchen is cleaned up, now there’s nothing left to do but go to sleep. 

“Ready for bed, bitsy?” I ask April, who’s at the dining room table doing nothing at all. Just sitting there with her hands folded in front of her, face downcast, unmoving. 

Getting no response, I walk over and place a hand gently between her shoulder blades. “Honey,” I say, and jolt her out of her mind. 

“Huh?” she says, lifting her head. 

“Are you ready for bed?” I ask. 

“Oh,” she says, scooting the chair out. “Yeah.”

I guide her up the stairs, one hand in hers and the other wrapped around the small of her back. As per every night, I help her change into pajamas, put toothpaste on her toothbrush, and comb her hair. By the time she’s lying down, I’m just getting started on my own bedtime routine and don’t join her until a little while later. 

She’s not asleep yet, though, because she turns on her side to face me with her eyes closed. Acting in a way she hasn’t for days, she reaches her arms out and wordlessly asks to be held, and I don’t hesitate. 

I pull her body to my chest and kiss her head, skimming my fingers down her side all the way to her hip. She hugs me tight, our torsos pressed together, and I let my hand pause just slightly on the skin exposed above the waistband of her shorts. 

When Peyton was first conceived, I couldn’t believe there was a little human growing inside April. The concept was wild to me, and I’d spend so much time with my face near her belly, saying and doing silly things. I’d shower her skin in kisses, talk to the baby long before it could hear, and I’d lift her shirt every chance I got so I could stroke her stomach. 

But tonight isn’t like that. Tonight, it’s enough just to feel her body without any further expectations. It’s enough just to have her close and to know she wants it, wants me. Because I don’t  know what I’d do without her.

…

I wake up in the middle of the night from a dream I can’t remember, heart hammering. I roll over to seek April out, to pull her little body close for comfort, but I find her half of the bed empty. It’s still somewhat warm, though.

I sit up and rub my eyes, trying to clear my head and reorient myself. I frown and blink hard, still waking up, and touch her side one last time to make sure she’s not there. It’s empty, though, that’s for sure. 

For a moment, I’m worried. That is, until the lights on the baby monitor change with the presence of audio, and when I listen closely, I hear April’s soft voice coming from Peyton’s room. 

Confusion hits me instantly as I wonder what she could be doing. She hasn’t gone in there unaccompanied since everything happened, so this is highly unusual. I can’t resist - I have to get up and see what’s going on. 

I pad across the hall with deliberate care and peek my head into the nursery. What I see catches me off guard, but not in a bad way. In fact, in a very, very good way. 

April is sitting in the rocking chair we had handcrafted for the nursery, rocking back and forth slowly and steadily. Peyton is on her chest, arms spread out, face turned to the side, sound asleep. April’s eyes are closed, her lips pressed to our baby’s curls, as she speaks quiet words I can’t come close to hearing. 

“You’re holding her,” I say, unable to keep silent any longer. 

I expected April to jump, though it wasn’t my intent to scare her. But she doesn’t flinch. It’s like she sensed my presence long before I made it known. 

“Yeah,” she whispers, stroking Peyton’s back over the soft onesie she’s wearing. 

I stay standing in the same spot, not bursting the bubble they’ve created. It’s not my moment, it’s theirs. And I don’t want to take it away from them. 

When I look closer, I see that April is crying. Not hard, not violently, but there are tear stains on her cheeks that shine all the way below her chin. It’s clear she’s been at it for a while, and her sniffling confirms as much. 

She rests her cheek on top of Peyton’s head and faces my direction, sideways instead of down. If her eyes were open, and if they weren’t white, she’d be looking right at me. 

“I can’t do it,” she says, and without an explanation, I know what she means. It’s not the same ‘I can’t do it’ as before, meaning she couldn’t raise another child. This ‘I can’t do it’ means the opposite. 

She can’t terminate. 

“We were talking about having more,” she whispers, kissing Peyton absentmindedly. “Our dream was more.” 

I nod slowly, knowing she can’t see me. I don’t want to sway her decision either way; it’s hers to make. 

“I can do anything,” April says, almost as if to prove it to herself. “I’m a mother.” 


	9. Chapter 9

**APRIL**

My daughter’s weight in my arms is a feeling unlike any other. As I sit in the familiar darkness and hold her sleeping form, I close my eyes and breathe her in. I revel in her presence and know I created her. I sit with that fact for as long as I need to, and remind myself why I’m here. 

I used to help and heal people, but I can’t do that anymore. I used to be independent, but I’m not anymore. I used to be a person with sight, but I’m not that anymore, either. 

There are two things that haven’t been stripped from me, though. I’m a wife; I’m a mother. And that will never change, no matter what happens to my physical body. I have my daughter in my arms and my husband sleeping a few rooms away. We have a warm home and food in our bellies, and I have the same brain in my head. 

Nothing can change that.

I still have the power to bring new life into the world, proven by the budding fetus inside my womb. The fetus I was hellbent on refusing just a few hours ago, but one that I now know I couldn’t bear to part with. 

Who would I be if I aborted it? I already don’t recognize enough facets of who I am, but if I went through with it, it would likely send me into a downward spiral I could never dream of climbing out of. I’m not sure who I am right now, but I don’t think I’m someone who terminates a pregnancy that was so wanted so recently. I couldn’t live with myself. I’d remember it every second of every day, and I know it wouldn’t come without personal punishment. 

It doesn’t have anything to do with religion or the set of values I was raised on, though those would be sitting in the back of my mind and heckling me the whole way. It’s more than that - it’s who I am at my core, and no matter how much I’ve changed, I can’t see myself getting rid of a baby. Our baby, mine and Jackson’s little life. 

Especially because I know how much he wants it. When I could see, I saw it in his eyes and how they’d sparkle when we’d talk about having more. And I heard the pain in his voice when I told him my choice for this one. I’d never heard him so hurt, but I didn’t care then. It’s my body and my choice, but if I went through with it, I’m not sure where that would put the two of us and our marriage. 

It’s his child, too. As is Peyton. We already created perfection, so I know we can do it again. That’s not the problem. The problem is that I won’t get to witness it. The tears that slip down my cheeks are involuntary as I turn that thought over in my mind.

I won’t ever see their face. Not when they’re born, not when they smile for the first time, not on their first birthday. Not ever. My sight isn’t coming back, but I still have a job to do. I have lives to nurture - one of those being my own.

I hear Jackson’s footsteps come closer to Peyton’s nursery, but I don’t turn to let him know that I do. He just stands in silence for a moment before speaking, and when he does, I don’t jump. 

“You’re holding her,” he says. 

I stroke the baby’s back over the smooth material of her onesie. I’m not sure which one it is for sure - but I can guess. It’s probably pink patterned with tiny white stars. That one is soft, and Jackson loves dressing her in it. 

“Yeah,” I say. He doesn’t add anything more, though I expected him to. Lately, it seems like he tries to fill the silences that I won’t. 

I don’t let him do that this time, though. I turn my head to the side and acknowledge his presence, prepared to let loose what’s been running through my mind.

“I can’t do it,” I say, trying picturing the future if I did go through with the termination. I can’t do it, though - it’s a blank space full of desperation and tears. I don’t know how I would go on knowing what I did. I take a deep breath and kiss Peyton as an afterthought. “We were talking about having more. Our dream was more.” 

He’s still quiet. He lets me speak, gives me the floor.

“I can do anything,” I say, though that’s not entirely true anymore. But the latter part of my statement is, when I say: “I’m a mother.” 

…

While Peyton naps the next day, I sit on the couch next to Jackson with my legs folded under me. My face stings and I need salve on my burns, but this phone call comes first. 

“You want me to dial?” he asks, and I nod. I hear the numbers being pushed before he hands the phone back - unfurling my fingers before setting the receiver in my flat palm. “Okay. It’s ringing.”

My throat is dry while I talk to the receptionist and successfully cancel my appointment, and when it’s done, my shoulders feel lighter but my heart is still heavy. 

Jackson spreads his fingers out on my thigh and I let him. It’s a grounding force, his hand on my body, so I overlap it with my own. 

“You okay?” he asks. “You’re sure about this?” 

I nod slowly and close my eyes, which is something I do frequently. I know him better than anyone, and I’m pretty sure my white eyes scare him. And I don’t want to do that. 

“I’m sure,” I say. “I just… I don’t know.” 

“What?”

I shake my head and hold his hand tighter. I scratch my cheek and sigh deeply, at a loss on how to put together my thoughts coherently. Lately, there’s been a wall between us that’s made communication difficult. It never used to be like this. But now, it seems there’s a barrier that we somehow can’t cross and I’m not sure how to knock it down. 

“You wanna look at me, bitty?” he asks. 

I shake my head again, eyes still closed and thoughts still whirring. 

He makes a confused sound and asks, “Why?” 

I swallow thickly and hear the sound that goes along with it. While I contemplate my answer, I stroke the skin atop his hand and feel the veins I’m so familiar with. But now, instead of seeing the intricate map they make, I can only feel them. I have to take what I can get. At least I can still see them in my mind’s eye - there are some things that are impossible to forget. 

“You can tell me anything,” he says. “I hope you know that hasn’t changed.” 

I chew the inside of my cheek and debate how to word it. I know, no matter what I say, he’ll deny it. But I have to try. “I know you don’t like my eyes anymore,” I say, very quietly. I’m ashamed to admit that I know it. I don’t like putting it out there. Saying it makes it real, instead of just a theory inside my head. “I know they’re white. I know they scare you.” 

He’s silent for a moment, a moment that makes me very nervous and jittery. I don’t know what he’ll say next. Is he going to concede and admit I’m right? Or is he going to substitute this empty space for a weak excuse? I can’t be sure. I’m not positive that I want to know. I shouldn’t have brought it up at all; it should have just remained unspoken.

But I know that’s a stupid thought. Would it had to have gone unsaid for the rest of our lives? 

“You know at the beginning of December, when everything is cold,” he begins. “Cold with no payoff. Everything is just brittle, broken and dead. You know?” 

I crinkle my barely-there eyebrows and frown, confused, and say, “Yes…” 

“But then, one day it happens randomly. It’s the best when you’re not expecting it - that first snow. When it starts slow, like that powdered sugar I always get everywhere in the kitchen, then speeds up enough to actually stick. And by the time you wake up the next morning, the whole city is covered. And if you’re up early enough like your crazy ass, you get to see it before it’s been touched by anyone else. That smooth, even white.” 

I know what he’s saying now. I’ve caught on. 

“April,” he says, voice gentler without the storytelling lilt. “Can I touch your face?” 

I nod slowly. His hands cup my cheeks, below the scars, and he strokes my skin with his thumbs as gentle as can be. I lean into his touch - I let myself enjoy it, enjoy him - and open my eyes. 

“There you are,” he says. “Just like the snow.” 

My throat clogs with tears, but I keep them at bay. I don’t want to ruin this moment with more of my uncontrollable emotions. I just want to sit here in this little capsule with my husband’s eyes on mine and his gentle hands on my face. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” I say, and the statement holds a heavy truth. 

I can’t help but imagine what I’d be like if the tables were turned. Or moreover, what he would be like. I’m sure he’d be dealing with this setback much better than I have; I’m sure he’d be able to rein in his emotions, and I’m sure he wouldn’t deal the blame to me or Peyton. He’d be even-keeled, or at least better than I’ve been. He wouldn’t make things harder than they had to be, and that’s all I’ve been doing. I haven’t been fair. I know that better than anyone. 

“It doesn’t work like that,” he says, and I hear the smile in his voice. 

“You know what I mean,” I say, blinking while keeping my eyes low. 

“All I know is that you’re my wife, and you always will be,” he says. “You’re the mother of my kids. And on top of that, you’re a brilliant, gorgeous woman and I’m lucky to have you in my life.” 

“Jackson,” I say, shaking my head. 

“And I’m gonna kiss you now,” he says. “Before we have to put that salve on your face.” 

…

I get up in the middle of the night again. Night after night, I can’t seem to sleep. I lie beside Jackson and listen to his breathing change and deepen, and I feel his body twitch and eventually slacken as he slips away. But I just stay there tucked against him, one of his heavy arms across my waist and his face in my neck, wide awake. 

So, without waking him, I slip out. He never stirs; he’s a heavy sleeper. I’ve turned into one, too, whereas that’s something I never used to be. Now, once I go, it’s difficult to come back to the surface. 

I sneak into Peyton’s room and lift her out of her crib, every night. I try not to wake her, I just want to sit with her, but sometimes it’s unavoidable. She doesn’t fuss, she just vocalizes a bit and squirms in my arms as she tries to find a comfortable position. 

I sit with her on my lap in the rocking chair because it calms me. Even if the day preceding wasn’t particularly hard, they’re always taxing. And sitting with my little girl in the dead of night with no noise surrounding us, it brings me a special sense of serenity. 

“Peyton,” I say, rocking back and forth with my eyes closed. She’s been still for a while, but I know she’s not sleeping. Like her father, she has telltale signs and they haven’t been showcased yet. “I’m sorry your mommy is gonna be different than other mommies. That I already am.” 

She sighs softly. I feel her belly move and hear the air gently escape. I smile to myself - I love when she does that. It lets me know she’s listening, even if she might not be aware of what I’m saying. 

“You won’t remember how I was when I could see. I was really fun. I took you everywhere and showed you everything. I can’t really do that anymore.” I rest my chin on top of her head. “Maybe I’ll learn how to do it again, though. I just don’t know where to start.” 

She rests her head against my chest plate and sighs again, this time growing a bit more limp. She’s sleepy, I know that. I’ve been interrupting her sleep schedule for my own selfish needs, and I shouldn’t be. Every night, Jackson has to come in and put us both to bed again. He hasn’t said anything negative about my nightly trips, but I can tell he’s thinking it. If just a little. 

Tonight is no different. I come to the surface slowly as he lifts Peyton off my chest and rests a hand on my shoulder, fingers strong around it. 

“Honey,” he says. “Come to bed.” 

I make a sleepy sound in my throat and hold the armrests of the rocking chair. I blink hard for a moment as if to reorient my sight, then remember with a sinking feeling that there’s no clearing it. It’s a strange thing to get used to upon waking up, every single time. 

“Coming,” I murmur, voice raspy with exhaustion. 

He doesn’t move to put the baby back. Instead, he stands in place while I get up, then takes my wrist to lead me into our bedroom like always. 

“What about the baby?” I ask, taking his hand. 

“I figure she might as well come with us,” he says. “Then, you can stop getting up at night. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. If having her close makes you happy, she can sleep with us. I’ll attach the bedside crib tomorrow.” 

I smile as he places a hand on the small of my back to help me onto the mattress. I crawl over to my side and wait for him to place Peyton beside me, then lie down himself. Once we’re all settled, I reach an arm across our sleeping baby to touch his side. 

“Hmm,” he says. 

“Thank you,” I say. 

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says. 

“But I want to,” I say. “You understand me.” 

“You’re my wife,” he says, simple as that. “Of course I do.” There’s a small beat of silence where he kisses my palm and replaces my arm where it was. “You should go to sleep. It’s late, baby.”

I’m not tired anymore, though. I don’t feel like sleeping; I feel like talking. I want to be closer to him somehow, but there’s a baby in between us now. I seem to have thwarted myself that way.

“Are you asleep?” I ask a bit later, my whisper cutting through the darkness. 

“No,” he answers, right away. “But we should be.” 

“I’m not tired,” I say. 

He makes an affirmative sound and weaves his hand into my hair, stroking it away from my face. Over the past few days, he’s told me the salve has really helped the way my burns look. And admittedly, they haven’t been stinging as much. When he accidentally brushes them, I don’t jolt away in pain anymore. It’s more like a dull, ever-present ache. 

“What are you doing?” I ask, noticing his silence. 

“Looking at you,” he responds, and his voice is soft in more than just volume. It’s gentle and meaningful, with deep sweetness laced in. 

“Why?” I ask. 

“Why not?” he quips, then chuckles. “I’m married to you. I look at you a lot.” 

I scoff. “I don’t know why,” I say. 

“I do,” he says. “‘Cause you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Liar,” I say, and roll my eyes. It’s pointless, though. Now, the gesture doesn’t make much of an impact.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” he says, chuckling. 

“What?!” I say, lips pulling up in a smile. “How could you tell?” 

“I know what makes you roll your eyes,” he says. “And you hate my sappy compliments. I know you like the back of my hand, April Avery.” 

“Don’t forget the ‘Kepner’ part,” I say.

“I did,” he says. “What are you gonna do about it?” 

“Plenty, if there weren’t a sleeping child between us,” I say, placing one hand on her back. She’s turned on her side, facing me. I can feel her breath on my chest, even and slow. 

“I’d love to see that,” he says. “You haven’t pinned me in a while.” 

A blush creeps onto my cheeks when he brings that up. Suddenly, the long stretch of time where we haven’t been intimate is front and center in my mind. It’s something I’ve been actively trying not to think about. 

“I… I’m sorry about that,” I mutter. “I know it’s been a long time.”

There’s a beat, a pause, before he speaks again. “Oh… I was just joking,” he says, but now there’s an uncomfortable tension in the air - a thickness that holds the words we aren’t saying. I’m almost scared to know what he’s thinking, which has been the case a lot lately. I miss being able to read his face without having to ask for every single thought. I could see them for myself in his expressions. 

“But it has been a long time,” I say, looking at the situation from his perspective. 

Sex hasn’t so much as crossed my mind since the accident. I can’t be sure of exactly how long ago it happened, time ceases to exist a lot of the time, but it feels like forever that I’ve been blind - while at the same time barely a second has passed. 

“I feel bad,” I say.

“April,” he says. “I don’t expect anything from you, let alone sex. That would be gross. You don’t think of me like that, do you?” 

“No…” I say, shaking my head. “But I… I do miss you. And we used to do it so much. So, you don’t have to pretend that you don’t miss it. I know how much you like it.” 

“Well, it’s you,” he says. “And you’re my favorite person to do anything with. Including having sex. So, of course, I miss it. But-” 

“Have you been getting off?” I ask, more out of curiosity than anything. Back when I could see and we were having regular sex, he wasn’t huge on masturbating. Every once in a while when I was gone for a business trip we’d do spicy Skype calls, but I never walked in on him or anything like that. I think I used to do it more than he did - the shower was my alone-time for that. “Jerking off, I mean.” 

He clears his throat - a telltale sign of discomfort. “Um… I, yeah,” he says. “Once in a while.”

“Good,” I say. 

“Good?” he repeats, sounding incredulous. He laughs a little. “That’s not what I expected you to say.” 

“Well, I figured,” I say, eyelids growing heavy. “You’ve been so patient with me. And… no offense, but you’re not exactly the most understanding, even-keeled person when you’re not having regular orgasms.” 

He laughs and tries to keep it at bay so not to wake the baby. “Well, read me, why don’t you,” he says, still chuckling. 

I smile, too. “Just saying.” 

We’re quiet for a bit, and I reach over again and stroke his forearm. I’ve always loved the way his skin feels, and I’m grateful that’s something I haven’t lost. That I will never lose. 

“Jackson,” I say, a little while later. I’m still stroking his arm, which is something that always used to calm and soothe him. I’m the only person he’s ever let treat him so softly, and I cherish it. “Are you asleep now?” 

“Almost,” he murmurs, and I assumed as much. 

“Jackson,” I say, one more time. “How are we gonna do this?” 

I hope he knows what I mean. I can’t stop thinking about the tiny fetus inside me, ever-growing and changing, that will someday turn into a living child that cries, crawls, and needs constant attention. I can barely fathom how we’ll get through the next day, let alone the next year. The next five, ten, fifteen. I can’t see that far into the future - I can’t see anything. 

He takes my hand and kisses each of my fingers, lingering as he does. “We’ve made it this far,” he says. “Day by day. That’s all we can do.” 

He rests my hand on the side of his neck, and I keep it there. I’m eventually lulled to sleep by the strong beat of his pulse, my mind quiet for the first time in weeks.

...

A few days later, I’m sitting on the couch with Peyton on my lap, listening to her babble and enjoying the feeling of her pudgy hands on my arms, neck, and face. Jackson had been in the room with us, too, but when the phone rang he excused himself to the kitchen. I can still hear his voice, albeit muffled, and it sounds urgent and businesslike. 

His footsteps announce his presence a few moments later. “Hey, sweetie,” he says. “I gotta go. I just got paged for an emergency surgery - someone came in with third degree burns over their entire body.”

Hearing the purpose in his tone and knowing what he’s set out to do, my skin prickles with jealousy and a bad taste appears in my mouth. I want to be the one rushing off to save someone’s life. I want to drive at breakneck speed to the hospital and change into scrubs as quick as I can, then be briefed on what’s happening by a resident as we race down the hall. I don’t want to be stuck here on the couch, complacent with what’s in front of me. 

“Alright?” he says. “You okay here by yourself for a few hours? I’ll try not to be long.”

“I won’t be alone,” I say, trying to make the best of it. “I’ll have Peanut.” 

He takes a breath but cuts himself off. He pauses before actually saying what he wants to say. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says. “I’ll just take her with me and drop her off at daycare.” 

Instantly, I feel defensive. “Jackson, we’re just sitting here.”

“I’ll be gone for hours,” he says. “I just… I don’t think it’s safe yet. I don’t think either of you are ready.” 

“You don’t trust me,” I spit. I hate that I’m not sure if I’m looking in the right direction. I also hate that my body is pulsing with anger again, after the feeling has been absent for days. It’s not welcome, but it’s uncontrollable and involuntary. I don’t like feeling useless, and the fact that he can’t put faith in me with my own child is the epitome of uselessness. 

“It’s not that,” he says, practically pleading. “Please, don’t put words in my mouth. Can I just… we can talk about this later. We can start slower. Please, just let me take her.” 

I set my jaw and close my eyes as he lifts the baby off my lap. My body tenses as he bends to give me a kiss on the head, and I don’t lean into him. I turn away. 

“See you later,” he says. “If you get hungry, there are leftovers in the fridge. I know how much you like those.” 

“I probably can’t be trusted to heat them up,” I say. “So, I just won’t eat.”

He sighs, long and exasperated. He’s tired of me acting this way when something goes wrong, and I’m tired of things going wrong. I’m blind, not incompetent. I still know my child. Just because I can’t see her doesn’t mean I can’t take care of her.

“I gotta go,” he says. “We can talk later.”

“Sure.” 

I hear the front door open and close, and I’m left in inky silence. The house creaks, the wind blows outside, and the heat comes on and whirs to life. Other than that, though, there’s no sound. 

I get up from the couch, determined to do something on my own to prove I can. Suddenly, I’m furious. I don’t understand how he can say such kind, genuine things to me when it doesn’t involve applying the actions to life, but when it comes to making a trial run, he surrounds me with pads and bumpers. This was never my life. I was a badass trauma surgeon; safety was never on the forefront of my mind. A sheltered life is not one I want to participate in, nonetheless one I want for myself and my family. It’s not fair. It’s half a life, or even less. 

I pace the living room, back and forth. I know the pathway like the back of my hand, and I don’t run into anything. This is the room I spend the most time in. I don’t need eyes to navigate it, I just need muscle memory. 

I get tired of it quickly, though, and make my way towards the dining room. On the way there, though, I slam into something hard and unmoving near the door. It takes a second to realize what it is, because this is something that was never there while I could see. I never had a chance to memorize its position. 

It’s the piano. 

“Stupid thing,” I say, then take a step to the right to try and dodge it, but I end up running into the bench. “God!” I exclaim.

It seems sentient, like it’s putting itself in my way on purpose. I stand in the same place, a huge frown on my face, and let my hands clench into fists. I aim to kick a leg of the bench, but I miss and kick the air as hard as I can. 

I let out a loud, lasting sound of frustration and try to catch my breath. Being this angry is exhausting, that’s true, but I have no other outlet. It’s one of the only things I have say over, and I’m determined to let it simmer. I deserve as much. I’m allowed to be pissed off. I’m allowed to hate what’s happening. No one said I had to take it lying down. 

The truth is, I’m not the soft and understanding person I once was. Of course, there’s still kindness inside me inherently, and there always will be. But now, I’m constantly on the defense. My first instinct isn’t to put myself in someone else’s shoes, but to figure out a way to protect myself. It’s impossible to be offensive anymore - I don’t have the tools for that. So, I have to move in the opposite direction in an extreme way. 

I sit down on the piano bench and slump forward, letting my head hang. I’m not used to living this way, and it takes a lot out of me. I always have to think about what’s next, I always have to be one step ahead. I can’t just let things happen to me. The last time I did that, I lost my sight.

I set my hands in front of me and find that the keys are uncovered, the cover open. I run my fingers along the ivories and feel the slats of the black keys, grouped in twos and threes at every interval. 

I used to play the piano as a kid. From age seven to sixteen, I was good. I loved practicing, I loved recitals, and I loved making music. But that was when I could see, and things are different now. I’m not a prodigy like Beethoven, who wrote beautiful pieces even after going deaf. I’m not like Ray Charles; that thought is just laughable. I don’t know how Jackson can expect me to be anything but ordinary. Unlike the musicians who crossed my mind, I’m just me. A blind woman feeling the keys without a clue what to do next. 

I remember how it felt to play a song perfectly, though. I hadn’t known it, but I’d grow addicted to that feeling of accomplishment and a job well done. It carried over to my love of surgery and fixing someone to be brand new. That feeling and one of a song played without mistakes were eerily alike, and I never connected that until now. I loved knowing that I made people proud, no matter who those people were. 

I wonder when the last time was that someone felt proud of me. I’m sure Jackson would say he’s proud of me every day, but I mean something more than that. After the accident, have I done anything noteworthy? It doesn’t feel like it. I’ve just been surviving, existing. Not living. 

I smooth my five fingers along the keys until I recognize the familiar middle C. I plunk my thumb down and listen to the sound as it resonates - leave it to Jackson to make sure this piano is perfectly tuned. I press my pointer finger to play D, then my middle finger for E - and when that happens, memories come rushing back.

I’m sent back to my sophomore year in high school, when I played the song ‘Edelweiss’ from  _ The Sound of Music _ for my last recital. I sang along, something that a few other kids did, too, and I brought down the house. The applause and tears from my family aren’t the only reason this song is close to my heart, though. I practiced it for weeks and months on end to get the notes right, to make sure my intonation matched. I played it so much that I swear it became a part of me. It was in my head every moment of every day, and I was constantly humming it. 

The first note of the song is E, and it comes back when I press my middle finger down. The rest of the song is all right there in my head, and it feels like it should come out so easily. Like I could shut my brain off, let my fingers do the work, and it would come like it always used to. I could escape to that headspace I haven’t been in for so long and maybe, that way, remember a part of who I used to be. 

I press on E again and try to think of what note comes next. I try F, but that doesn’t work. It’s wrong. So, I take a step up and hit G, and I think that’s right. E, then G. I have no clue what comes next, so I go up the scale and try to find what sounds correct. It doesn’t gel until I get to high D, but I play B flat on the way there, and that sounds horrible. 

“Stupid,” I mutter, then slam both hands on the keys. “Stupid!” 

I sit there on the bench with one hand rested on the keys, not doing much at all. I don’t know what the next step is and I don’t know how to figure it out. It’s not like I can look at sheet music or pull it up on my phone. I haven’t used my phone on my own since everything happened. I don’t know where to start in doing that.

I sit there for a long time. I’m not sure how much time has passed by the time I come up with a new idea. Maybe if I try and sing the song, the notes will come more easily. I just have to remember how it goes.

I sit up straighter and clear my throat, determined once again. I think hard for a moment, and then begin.

“Edelweiss… edelweiss… every morning you greet me… small and white, clean and bright… you look happy to meet me…” 

I lose my train of thought after that, though. I’m not sure what comes next. I can’t think of the words. I can hear the tune, but the syllables won’t come. I have no idea. So, I start over. 

I repeat the same intro to the song, then get stuck in the same place. No matter how hard I think, I don’t know the words that follow. 

I make a loud sound of frustration and push at the piano, and I’m not sure what I expected to happen. It weighs thousands of pounds and I weigh somewhere around 110, so of course I’d be the one to move. I shove at the keys and end up knocking myself and the bench backwards, sending us both tumbling to the floor with a loud crash. 

Luckily, I don’t hit anything. I just land in a pile of rubble, the bench having come open with a bunch of papers inside. 

“Ouch,” I hiss. “God damn it.”

I get to my feet and straighten the area as best I can, though I’m not sure how great that actually is. It feels okay, though, from what I can sense, so I leave it. I’m done with that thing, if all it’s going to do is make me angry and remind me how little I can do. 

I’m sure if I could see, I could get right back into that song. I wouldn’t have as much of a reason to, but I’d at least know that I could do it. I wouldn’t be obligated to prove so much to myself and to others. I could just be, and live happy, like I’d been doing. If I could see, I’d be just be joyful about this new baby instead of filled with so many mixed feelings. 

It’s not fair. 

I find my way back to the couch and let myself cry. I only do it when I’m alone now, which isn’t very often. I sit there and sniffle, legs crossed on the cushion, head hanging low. I cry for everything I can’t do and wish I could, and for the life ahead of me that I have no idea how to navigate. 

…

A while later, I’m woken up by a hand on my shoulder and Jackson’s voice. I blink my eyes open and roll onto my back, not yet able to discern what he’s saying. My mind is too cloudy. 

“...up to bed. It’s late, I’m so sorry.”

“Hmmm… what?” I say. 

“It’s late,” he says. “Let me take you up to bed. I didn’t know it would take this long, I’m really sorry, honey.” 

I sit up slowly, relaxing against the cushion while he keeps one of my hands. “What time?” I ask.

“Almost midnight,” he says. 

“I’m hungry,” I say, one hand on my stomach. 

“You didn’t eat?” he says.

I shake my head and say, “I fell asleep.” 

“Alright,” he says, helping me up. “Let’s go find something.” 

“Where’s Peanut?” I ask, still groggy. 

“In bed already,” he says. “I put her down before I came to get you.” 

“Oh… okay,” I say, following with shuffling feet. He maneuvers me around the piano that I definitely would have hit for a second time if he hadn’t. 

I hear the sound of the light switch flicking on in the kitchen, and he helps me to the table. “What sounds good?” he asks.

“Grilled cheese,” I say, right away. 

He chuckles. “Coming right up.” 

He sits with me while I eat slowly and carefully. I work around the crust like a kid, setting it off to the side while moving to the other half of the sandwich. 

“Sorry, I didn’t cut it off for ya,” he says, and I hear the smile. “My bad. I forgot your five-year-old tendencies.”

I snicker and keep eating, nibbling around the crust as best I can. 

“Bitty, I’m sorry about earlier,” he says. “I didn’t want to fight. I know it’s hard to understand where I’m coming from. I don’t really understand it, either. Because I do trust you, and I trust you with the baby. I want you to be confident. But… I don’t know. It’s just scary. It’s not that I’m scared of you, but I don’t want something to happen and be unavailable. But I don’t want you to think I’m making decisions for you, either.” He sighs. “I don’t know where I’m at right now. But I know what I did was unfair.”

I shrug one shoulder. I understand what he means. I was wrong to get angry with him earlier. He was gone for a long time, and I can’t get up the stairs on my own yet to navigate the house. I bruised myself bumping into the piano and fell off the bench. It would have been a disaster with the baby here. 

“It’s okay,” I say. 

“But it’s not,” he replies, quickly. “I need to have more faith in you, because I said that I do. I’ll practice what I preach.” 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I say, elbows on the table. “I’m blind. It’s normal to wonder what I can and can’t do. I’ve been doing the same thing.” 

He’s quiet. He doesn’t know what to say. Maybe there’s nothing  _ to _ say in response to that. 

“But you’re still you,” he says. 

“Kind of.” 

“April, you are,” he says. “You still like the crust cut off your grilled cheese. That’s like, the most ‘you’ thing ever.” 

I smile. I can’t help it. 

“I’ll get better at… everything,” he says. “I’ll go to a support group or something.” 

“You don’t have to do that,” I mutter quietly. 

He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “So, what did you do while we were gone?” 

The memory of unleashing my fury at the piano comes back, and I decide to keep that to myself. I think about playing the notes and feeling like I was going to get it, but then not being able to. I remember falling off the bench and landing in a heap, which I probably have bruises from now. And he’ll see them before I ever do. 

“Not much,” I say. 

“TV? Anything?” he asks.

“Kinda hard to find the remote when you’re blind,” I say. 

“April,” he says. 

“I’m joking,” I say, grinning. 

He sighs, but only lightly. “Your humor has gotten dark,” he says.

“Yeah, well, so has everything else,” I say. 

He can’t help but laugh at that. I cherish the sound - I haven’t heard him belly-laugh for a long time. I love it when he lets go and frees himself enough to let his laugh go high and joyful. He sounds like a little kid, and it’s my favorite sound in the whole world. 

We go up to bed a little while later and he helps me into the pajamas I request. Once we’re both lying down, just the two of us, I curl onto my side and rest my head on his stomach. It rises and falls as he breathes, and I run two fingers through the hair around his belly button.

“Maybe I’m the one who should go to a support group,” I say, very softly. So soft, I wonder if he even heard.

He did hear, though. He weaves a hand through my hair and runs it through his fingers, twirling it at the ends. I can tell it’s long and probably in need of a trim soon. 

“Really?” he asks. The tone of his voice tells me he’s floored, but he’s trying to make it seem like he’s not. I knew he’d be surprised, because I’m surprised at myself for suggesting it. But I’m not sure how else to get better. “That’s something you’d want?” 

“Yeah,” I say, flattening my hand to rub his skin gently. “I think I need it.” 


	10. Chapter 10

**JACKSON**

Lying in bed with April, the morning comes to life while our house stays still and silent. Peyton is unlike most babies, sleeping in until 8 or even 8:30 on some days, and April will sleep until she’s woken. 

I was always used to being the last one up, waking to my wife’s face while she either sits with the baby on our bed or busies herself in another way. I used to love seeing her sit against the headboard and do work on her laptop, looking scholarly while wearing her blue reading glasses. Now, she has no reason to put them on. 

Today, I simply stay on my back and listen to the rhythm of her breathing. It’s slow and very deep; it’s clear she’s nowhere near the surface. She’s turned on her side to face away from me, and I can see her shoulder rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. It’s a comforting sight, knowing she’s right here and decently at peace. While wakeful, she doesn’t experience this tranquility often. 

Interrupting the silence, though, my phone rings on the nightstand. I jump, not expecting the sound, and grab it before it wakes April. Glancing at the Caller ID, I see it’s Libby Kepner calling. 

“Hello?” I say, keeping my voice low and even. April is sleeping so soundly; the last thing I want is to disturb her. 

“Hi, Jackson,” Libby says. “Is this a good time?” 

I glance at my wife beside me, who hasn’t even stirred. She’s become such a deep sleeper, talking at a low volume is probably safe. 

“Sure,” I say. “What’s up?” 

“Sorry for calling so early,” she says, and I can hear her kids’ voices in the background. My guess is that she’s already been up for hours. “I just… I wanted to talk to you and see how things are going.” 

“Oh,” I say, nodding. “Sure, of course.” 

April’s family isn’t rich by any means. They don’t have the money to take off work and come to Chicago to be with her. They wanted to come right after it happened, but April refused. And as time went on, the window of opportunity became smaller and smaller. They still haven’t seen her in person since it happened - not a single one of them. She’ll barely even talk to them on the phone. 

“She’s been doing better,” I say, glancing over while I speak. I gently adjust the sleeve of her pajama shirt that got folded up, smoothing it down slowly. “But Rome wasn’t built in a day. It’s still not easy.” 

“It’s been almost a month, right?” Libby says. I count the days in my head and agree with her. “I can’t believe it’s been that long. I feel terrible for not coming to see her.” 

“It’s…” I begin, and look at April once again. “Probably for the best. Her morale is improving bit by bit, but she’s not the same April you knew. She’s very self-conscious. She looks different now, and she behaves differently, too. It would be jarring for you, I’m sure, and it most definitely would be for your kids.” 

“But she’s still my sister,” Libby insists. “I don’t want her to think we abandoned her.” 

“She doesn’t think that,” I say, eyes still on my wife. “I promise you. She mentioned last week or so that she wants to try therapy, so we’re going to get that set up soon. After she gets settled there, my guess is that she’ll be more apt to seeing people from before.” I shake my head and fix my words. “More apt to spending time with you, I mean. All of you.” 

“Therapy?” Libby says. “That’s good.” 

“I know,” I say. “I think it will really help. I’m looking into support groups for myself, too. I want to make sure I’m doing everything right for her.” I pause. “Sometimes, I don’t feel like I am.” 

It’s the first time I’ve said that out loud. I’ve thought it plenty, but since the accident, we’ve been so isolated. Our friends don’t come around, and neither do our families, because April feels like some sort of mutant creature that would only offend them to look at. Because of this, I’ve had no one to vent to, no one to share the emotional weight with. I’ve shouldered it all myself - and in no way am I complaining, but it does get heavy at times.

“That’s so good of you, Jackson,” she says. “She’s lucky to have you.” 

“Well,” I say. “I know she’d do the same if the tables were turned.”

“You don’t need to downplay it,” she says. “You’re taking care of her and your baby while still working. That’s saying a lot. You should take pride in that.”

“I don’t know if ‘pride’ is the right word,” I say, rubbing one eye with my eyebrows raised. “It’s a lot to take in, Lib. I’m sorry, I’m not being very forthcoming. She’s your sister, you should know all that’s been going on. But it feels like we’ve been stuck in another world.” 

She’s quiet for a moment, turning thoughts over in her mind. “We moved the anniversary party, you know,” she says. “And it’s coming up this weekend. Maybe you three should come. I know it would do us a lot of good to see her, to hug her, you know? With this lack of contact, it feels like something is missing over here. And maybe it would do her some good to come home, too. Just for a day or two.” 

I nod slowly, because I know she’s right. April loves being around her family; they always light a special spark in her that I love seeing. It just might be hard to convince her to make the trip. 

“I’ll ask her,” I say. “I can try.”

“We’d love it if you came,” she says. “You guys are all we ever talk about. It would put our minds at ease to see your faces in person.” 

I smile a bit. “I’ll do my best,” I say. “But I’m going to leave it up to her.”

“Alright,” Libby says. “Well, thanks for chatting and catching me up. I really appreciate it, Jackson.”

“Of course,” I say, then hang up after a few more pleasantries. I set the phone on the nightstand and get comfortable on the pillow again, then notice April stirring. She’s waking up, eyelids fluttering as she rolls over, seeking me out in a way she’s been doing the past few mornings. “Hi, honey,” I say, touching her arm to let her know where I am. 

She makes a soft sound and scoots into my open arms, pressing her forehead against my chest and draping her arms over my sides. I kiss her hair, avoiding the scarred parts of her face, and squeeze her close. 

“How’d you sleep?” I ask, tickling her back with the pads of my fingers. 

“Good,” she says, reciprocating the motion. “I dreamed about you.” 

“Oh, yeah?” I say, smiling with my chin resting on top of her head. “What about?”

“You were talking,” she says. “And then I woke up.”

“Oh,” I say. “That wasn’t a dream.” 

Interrupting the conversation, Corky jumps up on the bed and makes April flinch with surprise.

“It’s just the fool,” I say, flattening my hand on her side. “It’s alright.” 

“He scared me,” she says, nudging her body even closer to mine. “But who were you talking to?”

“Your sister called,” I say. “She wanted to know how you’re doing, and also invite us to your parents’ anniversary party in Moline this weekend. What do you think?”

She’s quiet, leaving the question unanswered. I don’t know if she’s pretending I didn’t ask, or if she’s formulating a response in her head.

“All of them miss you,” I say. “They’d love to see you. I know… it might not be what you want right now, and you’re probably not crazy about the idea. But I told her I’d at least ask you.” 

She drags a thumb over my side, which gives me goosebumps. Lately, within the past few days to a week, she’s been more hands-on with me than she has been since the accident. It’s definitely heartening, and it reminds me of how things used to be. 

“I’d like to go,” she says.

“You would?” I ask, trying not to sound shocked. She nods. “They’ll be really happy to hear that.” 

“I miss them,” she says, then pauses. “But they’ll be scared of me.” 

“What do you mean?” I say. “Why, because of your eyes?” 

“Of course, because of my eyes,” she responds. “Not everyone is like you, Jackson. I don’t want them to see my eyes looking the way they do.” 

“Maybe you can wear sunglasses, or something,” I say. “Would that make you feel better?” 

She nods and pulls me tighter, nestling her head in the crook between my neck and shoulder. “How come you always know the answer?” she asks. 

“I don’t,” I say, laughing. “Actually, I barely ever do.” 

“But with me, you do,” she says. 

“Well, that’s because you’ve been my wife for way too long,” I joke. I get a giggle out of her, and my chest expands with warmth. 

“Jackson,” she breathes, after a long period of silence. 

“What, bitty,” I say. 

“I’m scared that… I don’t know. I’m scared that… that sex is gonna be different because I can’t see.” 

The statement seems to come out of nowhere, but I don’t question it. Judging by the way she said it, it’s been on her mind for a while. “What makes you say that?” I ask.

“I used to love seeing you,” she says. “I used to  _ need _ to see you. Now, I can’t. What will that mean? We were so good… you… you were so good. What if it’s not the same for me anymore?” 

I think it over before answering. “I think it’s impossible for it to be the same,” I say. “But I think there’s a chance it could feel better.” 

She scoffs. “How?” 

“Your other senses might be heightened,” I say, and close my eyes thinking about it. I miss being intimate with her more than I can say. We used to have sex frequently; once a day, if we could manage. Taking care of myself is nowhere near the same, and I miss pleasuring her. That was half the gratification. 

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” she says. “About you… about… doing it.” 

“Really?” I ask. 

“I’ve been scared to bring it up,” she says. “Because I don’t know how it’ll feel. And what if it’s bad? What if you never want to have sex with me again because of how bad it is?” 

“That’s the most far-fetched thing you’ve ever said, and you’ve said some crazy shit,” I mutter, chuckling. She snorts, too. “I do miss being with you,” I admit. “But I never wanted to push you.” 

“I know,” she says. “I know you miss it.” She pulls her face out of my neck and rests her head next to mine on the pillow, using her hands to frame my face. She strokes my skin, running her fingers through my beard, and inches closer until we’re kissing. When she pulls apart, she says, “But I’m saying you don’t have to miss it anymore.” 

Her eyes are open, and I look deep into them. They’re a shiny white this morning, and her eyebrows are growing back which gives them more feeling. As I look at her, I’m overcome with a feeling of thankfulness that she’s mine. The world could flip on its head - just like her personal world did - and she would still be mine. I’d still be married to the light of my life. 

“You want to?” I ask. “Seriously, April, if you’re not ready, we don’t have to.” 

“I am ready,” she says. 

“You just said you were scared, though,” I mention. 

“I want you to prove me wrong so my mind will be quiet,” she says. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about lately. I just want you to remind me how amazing it is to be with you. Because it was amazing. And I want to feel that again.” 

I kiss her hard, with passion and gusto. I hold her face in my hands and she melts into me, winding her arms around my neck and copying the motion with her legs to my waist. 

“Just…” she says. “Go slow, please. And…” She presses her lips together and blinks a few times. “Could you tell me… tell me what you’re doing? Just this once.” Her hands shake when she touches my face again, and she laughs weakly. “It feels like our first time all over again, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be this nervous.” 

“You’re allowed to be nervous, bitty girl,” I say. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do. And if it gets to be too much, we can stop.” 

“Okay,” she whispers, trailing her fingers over the shells of my ears as she nods. “Okay.” 

I prop myself up on elbow and hold the side of her face to open my mouth wide over hers. She breathes into me, chest rising, and closes her eyes from the feeling. She keeps her arms looped around my shoulders as she slips her tongue into my mouth, and I relish the feeling of it moving alongside my own. She’s the best kisser I’ve ever known; she puts her heart into everything she does, but most of all, she puts it into the way she kisses me.

“I’m gonna touch your boobs now,” I say, lips moving against her mouth. I nip her bottom lip and take it with me, letting it pop back after a moment. “Okay?” 

She nods fervently, and I hold one breast over the thin material of her silky camisole. Her nipple pokes through and I rub my thumb in circles over it, feeling it harden even more. I moan as I break from her mouth and move to her chest, where I kiss her through the fabric and get it soaking wet with my tongue.

“Oh…” she moans, arching her back to get closer to me. She holds the back of my head and pushes me roughly against her chest, and I smile to myself. “God, baby.” 

“I’m gonna take your shirt off,” I say, and help her sit up with two steady hands on her back. 

She nods breathlessly, and I strip the soft shirt over her head and toss it to the side. Now, she lies under me - topless, skin creamy and covered in freckles, nipples blush pink and ready for me to get my mouth on them.

“You’re beautiful,” I say, lowering my head to skim my nose along her sternum. “April, you’re so beautiful.” 

I hear her smile; I don’t need to see it. She keeps her hands on the back of my head, fingers dancing, and winds her legs around mine. “Do you really mean that?” she asks. 

“April,” I say. “My baby, you are the most beautiful woman to ever walk this earth.” I lick the round underside of her breast and move upwards towards the middle, breathing hotly onto her skin. “And now, I’m gonna put my mouth all over your nipples, baby.” 

She groans when I suck one between my teeth, worrying it softly and scraping over the peaked bud. I hold the sides of her ribcage while I suck on her, and the sounds she makes are desperate and enough to get me way past the point of hard.

“That feels so good,” she whimpers. “Jesus, babe… I can’t… my god…” 

“You can’t what?” I say, peppering kisses between her breasts as I move from one to the other. “Tell me, beautiful.” 

“Mmmm…” she groans, lifting her hips so they collide with mine. She laughs lightly and scratches her nails across my scalp, breathing deeply so her stomach pushes out and makes me move with it. 

“That’s what I thought,” I say, moving lower and sucking portions of her belly between my teeth to give her hickeys. “I’m giving you hickeys on your stomach now,” I say. “So only I can see them.” 

She twitches with each new kiss; her stomach has always been crazy sensitive, just like her ears. When I finally get to the waistband of her pajama shorts, she freezes and brings her hands to her chest, absentmindedly covering her breasts while waiting to find out what my next move is. 

“I’m gonna eat your pussy now,” I say, lips moving over the crotch of her sleep shorts. She inhales sharply, making her rib cage show, and widens her thighs subtly. 

“Yes,” she breathes. “Okay.”

I pull her shorts and underwear off at the same time, just slow enough to torture her. She squirms as I do, and once she’s completely bare, she presses her knees together. 

“You don’t have to hide, sweet baby,” I say, pressing kisses to her kneecaps before moving any higher. I stroke her thighs and the light hair on them stands up, chills rising after. “You’re gorgeous. Every single inch of you. And I mean that.” I lean forward and press a kiss below her bellybutton, which makes her twitch again. 

When I get my hands on her thighs and ease them apart, her muscles are more relaxed and she lets out a deep exhale. I bend her knees and widen them further, then get comfortable in the place I’ve missed being so very much. 

When I get my mouth on her, her body goes from expectant to completely slack. Her hand finds its way to my hair and roots itself in my curls, and her hips jolt to hit my waiting mouth. It’s like nothing has changed - I still bury my face in her heat as far as I can, and I make her scream with pleasure. I don’t stop until her whole body is vibrating, and even then, I go harder. I slide three fingers inside her and pump them fervently, and with her thighs spread as far as they’ll go, she squirts all over my mouth and chin, and it slowly drips to hit the comforter. 

“Oh, shit,” she breathes, panting hard. Her entire top half is painted a crimson red. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit, Jackson,  _ shit _ …” 

“Baby,” I say, licking my lips and gathering the remaining liquid on my chin with my hand. “You squirted.” 

“What?” she says, still trying to catch her breath. “What did you… what?” 

I pick up her hand and run her fingers through mine, showing her what she did. “You… squirted,” I say, feeling more satisfied than ever. “All over my face. And it was the fuckin’ hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

She rubs her fingertips together and lets her jaw hang open in shock, thighs still parted. Taking advantage of her position, I bend to kiss her outer lips, soon turning my attention to her soft inner thighs. 

“So good, baby,” I say. “You did so good.” 

“I hope you’re not done,” she says, fumbling for my shoulders and motioning for me to move up. “I want you inside me still, too.” 

I chuckle and kiss her cheek over and over, undoubtedly getting the liquid that came from her all over her skin. At this point, we’re both filthy. 

“What do you want,” I say, caressing her hair out of her eyes. “Missionary, doggy, or something else?” 

She feels her way to my face and frames my cheeks in her hands. “Take me to the shower,” she says, and I waste no time in doing just that. 

I lift her out of bed and carry her to the bathroom stark naked, turning on the shower after setting her down. Once we’re inside, I guide her under the jet and rinse us both down, sudsing her body with a loofah before taking her arms and pressing her palms to the cool tile.

“You ready, baby,” I murmur, right into her ear as I hold her hips in my hands. 

“Yes,” she says, nodding and turning her head towards mine. 

I kiss her cheek and hold my erection with one hand as I push it inside her, and she lets out a long, delicious moan as I bury myself all the way. She throws her head back and I reach around and hold the front of her neck, opening my mouth on her ear while rocking my hips against her ass. 

Her fingers curl against the wall and her back expands with breath while I let the hand on her neck sneak lower to her breasts. I keep my pace slow and steady as I suck on her earlobe, and she grits her teeth because the feeling is so much. I’m still reeling from the fact that she squirted earlier, so I couldn’t be any higher on cloud 9 than I am right now. 

Plus, I don’t think I fully realized how much I missed being immersed in her body. My person, my best friend, my wife - being this close to her means everything. There was a loose piece between us, and now it’s back in place, more solid than ever. 

“I love you,” I say, whispering under the steady stream of water.

“I love you, too,” she says, reaching to hold my head with one arm. “I love you so much.”

As I continue, I press my face into her neck and wrap my arms around her waist to finish inside of her. She orgasms, too, pushed right against the wall, and I press kisses all over the back of her head and shoulders as she finds her way back to earth. 

“Jackson,” she says, turning around to seek me out. Once she’s in my arms, I hold her tight and touch the tip of her nose with my own. When I look close, I see she’s crying. 

“What is it, bitsy?” I ask, nudging her nose. “Why’re you crying?” 

“You…” she begins, then hiccups. She gains some composure, lies her hands flat on my chest, and looks up again. It almost feels like we’re making eye contact. “You made me feel like I could see again.”

…

The next morning, the day we’re headed to Ohio, the baby wakes up pissed off. She’s crying when I pick her up out of the crib, when I change her diaper, and even when I bring her to see April. 

“Look, there’s Mama,” I say, pointing to where April is sitting on the bed in a tank top and underwear. “Wanna go see Mama?” 

“What’s wrong?” April asks as I sit down on the mattress, bringing the baby with me. 

“She won’t tell me,” I joke. “Here. Take her, see if she wants you.” 

I hand her over, and April tries to get her little body situated. Peyton can’t get comfortable though, and I see the frustration showing on her face as she fights her mother’s every movement. Eventually, she spins herself around and gets a handful of the collar of April’s shirt, tugging it with persistence. 

“Oh,” I say. “She wants to nurse.” 

April’s eyebrows furrow as she changes her grip on our daughter. “She’s pulling at me?” 

Peyton starts screaming louder, demanding what we both know she wants. “Just try,” I say. “If it will get her to stop, might as well try.”

“I don’t…” she begins, but doesn’t finish. Instead, she tries to maneuver her shirt to pull it down, but it’s too tight and it doesn’t work. “Hold on,” she says, and hands me the baby before stripping it off entirely, leaving her topless when reaching for Peyton again. “Here.” 

I watch them for a moment as April tries to get her situated, but she can’t get it right and Peyton is too upset to find the way on her own. So, I reach over and guide the baby’s head while holding one of April’s small breasts in my hand, helping her find the nipple - and she eventually does. 

“Thanks,” April says, stroking Peyton’s skin as she latches. 

She doesn’t stay quiet for long, though. In a moment, she pulls away from the nipple with a disgruntled sound, and April touches the place where she’d been. 

“I’m not sure if anything’s coming out,” she says, jiggling the baby to try and keep her calm. It doesn’t work. “Can you check, please, Jackson?” 

“Um…” I say, eyeing her chest with furrowed eyebrows. “How, exactly?” 

“If you put your mouth on me, I’ll end you,” she says, with a smile and a giggle. “Just pinch it. Softly!” 

I do as she says, but nothing happens. “Nope,” I say. 

“Okay…” she says, and I can see the tension on her face as she switches Peyton’s body around to face the other breast. “Let’s try this one, then.” 

The baby presses a flat hand to the middle of April’s chest, fingers fanned out while she rests in the crook of her mother’s elbow and tries to nurse again. But it ends much in the way the first one did, with no result. 

When I look at my wife’s face - her chin is trembling but she’s trying to hide it. “I’m dried up,” she says, switching the baby’s position so she’s shrieking over her shoulder instead. “I can’t nurse her anymore. I’m done.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” I say, reaching out to touch her chin. She doesn’t flinch, but I see in her expression that she feels defeated. “I can take her downstairs and make her a bottle. It’ll be alright. She likes that just fine, anyway.” 

“I’ll come, too,” she says, which surprises me. Usually, this is about the time where she gives in to her blindness and lets me take over. “Just… help me down the stairs.” 

“Okay,” I say, trying not to sound taken aback. I like this development. “Sure, let’s go.”

We make it down the stairs, though April still isn’t wearing a shirt, and make Peyton a bottle that calms her down. She stops crying, holds the bottle herself, and sits in her high chair like it’s any other day.

“Phew,” I say, then look to April. “You okay?” 

She chews her lip and says, “I think so.” A pause. “Just… that phase is over. My body just stopped, because I wasn’t letting her do it. And now, it’s done. Just like that. She’ll never nurse again.” 

“No, she won’t,” I say, coming towards her and placing my hands on her bare shoulders. “But that’s okay. She’s getting big. And you know what?” She tips her face towards mine and I rest a hand on her belly. “There’s another little one coming, and we can do it all again.” 

“Yeah,” she says. “But… I don’t know. It’s a mom thing.”

“Is it also a mom thing to walk around your house - that has many windows, mind you - without wearing a shirt or a bra?” I ask, chuckling. 

She crosses her arms over her chest and juts her chin at me. “Yes,” she says. “For your information, yes, it is.” 

…

The car ride to Moline is long, and towards the end of it, April becomes withdrawn, quiet and sullen. It reminds me of the way she was acting a very short time ago, and I don’t like that it’s returned. The wife I recognized was starting to make her way back, and the fact that this one is still under there is unsettling.

I don’t call attention to it, though. Instead, I try and liven up the car ride with songs and stories, but Peyton falls asleep and April ignores me. So, I give in to the silence that shrouds us until we pull into the Kepners’ driveway, one that’s already full of cars. 

“Are we here?” April asks.

“Yep,” I say. “And it looks like everyone else is, too.” 

She fumbles for her sunglasses and puts them on before I can even unbuckle. Peyton is still asleep, so I help April out first and hand her the baby, then guide her up the path by the small of her back.

“They’re all going to be talking at me,” she says, chin tucked low. “Everyone at once. I don’t know if I can handle it, Jackson.” 

“I’m right here,” I remind her. “If it’s too much, we can go someplace quiet. They’re your family, itty-bitty, they understand you.” 

“No, they don’t,” she says. “Not anymore. I don’t even understand me.” She gravitates even closer to my side. “Only you do.” 

“They deserve a chance,” I say. “And we came all this way. Let’s just go inside, I’m sure they’re all watching right now anyway. Nosy shits.” 

She snorts at that, shoulders bouncing as she laughs. I keep a good hold on her as we stand in front of the door, and before I can even ring the doorbell, Karen Kepner appears and greets us. 

“Hello, hello!” she says, then lowers to a whisper when she sees Peyton is asleep. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Hello, hello! Come in, you two. Please, come in. April, honey… April, there’s a step. Watch the step.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell Karen, then guide April into the house. There are plenty of people around, but suddenly everyone has stopped talking and begun staring. April cowers, much in the way she did when we had to go back to the hospital for follow-up appointments soon after it happened. “Is there somewhere we could lay Peanut down?” I ask. 

“Of course,” Karen says. “The guest room, down the hall.” 

We make it there with no more words exchanged. I help April to the bed and she lays the baby down in the middle, and I surround her with pillows so she won’t fall off. 

“Is she okay?” April asks, stuck to my side again with both arms wrapped around my middle. 

“Perfect as she ever was,” I say.

“April, baby,” Karen says tentatively, from right beside us. “I need to hug you.” 

April reluctantly separates from me and lets her mother take her in her arms, and I notice her stiffness - though I hope Karen doesn’t. She rubs her daughter’s back and gives her a good squeeze, then goes for the sunglasses that rest on her nose. 

“No,” April barks, as soon as she realizes what her mom is about to do.

“But you’re indoors, sweetie,” Karen says. 

“I know,” April says. “I just… I want them on. I need them. For my sake… and-and everybody else’s, I need to keep them on.” 

Karen looks to me, but I don’t give a reaction. April doesn’t need my validation, she has a voice of her own and she used it. 

We go back out to where everyone else is, and I spot April’s three sisters gathered in the living room, waiting hesitantly for the completion of their quartet. Their eyes shine with expectation and two of them are wringing their hands. I put my lips close to April’s ear, stroke her shoulder with my thumb, and say, “Your sisters are waiting for you."

“My sisters?” she repeats. 

“They’re right in front of you,” I say, still rubbing her shoulder. “Take a few steps, and Alice can hug you.” 

“Alice?” 

“I’m right here, Mouse,” Alice says, using a nickname April told me about a long, long time ago. Her family all called her Mouse when she was young because she was so incredibly little. 

April breaks from me and takes a couple wavering steps forward, using her arms to find the way. I don’t help her; I don’t need to. Instead, she falls into her sisters’ open arms and they embrace their missing link with everything they’ve got.

…

April and I spend time quietly among other people, and I tell her who comes up, who speaks, and she lets me know when she’s had enough. We hang around everyone for a long time, longer than I thought she’d last, then she starts to weaken. 

She stops talking as much. She clings to my side and doesn’t let me go. When Peyton wakes up and it’s time to have cake and ice cream, everyone wants a turn holding the baby and April gets overwhelmed. I can see it on her face, but she doesn’t say it aloud. 

When she starts acting like this, I watch her family stop recognizing her. They don’t know the reclusive, silent, hidden-eyed woman in front of them. They know the bubbly, vivacious one with the loud laugh. But in moments like these, that’s simply not who April is anymore. They’ll have to get to know this version, too.

“Let’s take a minute,” I say, quietly so no one else hears. “Let’s take a break, bitsy baby.” 

“We can?” she murmurs, and her voice is merely a peep. 

“Yeah, let’s go,” I say, then scoot back my chair and help her out of hers. Everyone else at the table looks over, and I’m sure my eyes tell tehm all they need to know. 

“Where’s Pey-Pey?” April asks, as we walk down a quiet hallway.

“She was stuffing her face on Kimmie’s lap,” I say, smiling. April smiles, too. 

“She loves cake,” she whispers, and I lead her into a bedroom and sit down with her on the bed. 

“Whose room is this?” I ask. “David Cassidy poster, light blue walls. Frilly white curtains.” 

“Libby,” April says, very quietly. She leans against me with her whole weight, and lets out a long breath. 

“You’re doing so good,” I say. “I know it’s taken a lot out of you. But their faces… baby, they’re so happy to have you around. They really needed this.” 

She nods slowly. “No one knows,” she mutters. “About the baby. No one knows. And I don’t know how to tell them.” 

I’m quiet for a moment, considering what she’s said. “Do you  _ want  _ to tell them?” 

She nods, subtly and then more sure. “I just don’t know how.” 

I shrug, thinking it over. “Just… say it.” 

“It wouldn’t come out right,” she says. “Nothing comes out right anymore. I can’t look anyone in the eye. I don’t know where I’m talking. I just… talk. Into the open. No one listens.”

“I listen,” I say. 

“I don’t mean you.” 

“They listen, too,” I assure her. “Bitty, you gotta give people more credit. The world is not out to get you.” 

“But that’s easy for you to say,” she says, a bit of anger laced in her voice. “You didn’t get acid thrown in your face. You didn’t get a life handed to you that you never wanted. You didn’t get…  _ this _ .” 

“I know,” I say, not wanting to spark her temper. I know I didn’t say the right thing, but my heart is in a good place. “And I know you did. But you have people around you who just want to help.” 

She doesn’t say anything then. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t refute me, she just leans against me in the way we’ve both grown so used to. She yawns, and I figure she must be exhausted. She never has this much activity in one day. 

“I want to tell them,” she says, and I notice she’s resting one hand flat on her belly. “When we go back out. But can we stay here a little bit longer?”

“We can stay here for as long as you need,” I tell her.

We go and rejoin the party about fifteen minutes later, and everyone is still sitting at the table. I help April into her chair and give her Peyton when she asks, and they sit together content as can be. Our baby leans against April’s chest, the back of her head against her sternum, and she watches everything her mother can’t. 

“There’s something I wanna say,” April mutters, but her voice is so quiet that no one picks it up except for me. I’m used to tuning into her, but everyone else is caught up in their own boisterous conversations. I don’t speak for her, though, that won’t do anyone any good. She’s got to use her own voice, get her own power back. So, she clears her throat and tries again. “I have something I wanna say?”

“Oh, hold on,” Karen says. “April, honey, what?” 

“I have something,” she says, and wraps her arms tight around Peyton’s pudgy belly. “I don’t really know how to say it, so I’m just gonna… say it.” Her eyebrows crease a bit. “I’m blind. I know you guys know… I know you know that. But sometimes, it helps to say it. I’m blind.” 

The words sit in the open air like a weight, no one knows how to react to what she’s said. But she’s not finished. 

“I’m blind, and it’s bad. It’s horrible, and I don’t really know how to live with it. I’m not sure if I’ll ever know. But also want to say that…” She takes a deep breath and lets her shoulders rise and fall. “I’m pregnant, too.”

Everyone continues to stare, eyes cemented on her. I wonder if she can feel it. I know she’s waiting for a response that no one is giving, so she prompts them once more. 

“And… we’re happy about it,” she says, and a sunburst explodes in my chest. That’s the first time she’s said those words aloud, even to me. A smile blooms on her face, and everyone else matches the expression, too. I can’t help my own grin - even Peyton giggles. 

I mirror the statement, looking around the table and saying, “Really happy.” 


	11. Chapter 11

**APRIL**

I imagine the room must erupt in smiles, because everyone makes happy sounds in response to our news. I hear clapping, though I can’t be sure who the hands belong to, and excited squeals from my sisters. 

“Oh, Mouse, that’s great!” Alice says, her voice coming somewhere to my right. “I’m so… it’s such a…” She takes a breath. “I didn’t expect that. I don’t think any of us did.” 

Her statement twists my gut a little, but I try and ignore it. “Well, we really didn’t, either,” I say, a bit under my breath. I don’t think anyone hears. 

“Congratulations, sweetheart!” Mom says, and hugs me before I can register her proximity. 

The contact makes me jump and jolt away, which, judging by the tension of my mother’s body, unsettles her. She’s used to me melting into her hugs; they used to be my favorite. But now, I don’t have agency over who touches me and when they do it. It’s out of my control.

My mother makes a small, apologetic sound, and holds my upper arms in her hands. She rubs up and down, and I try to ease into her affection that I’m simply not used to anymore. 

“We’re so happy for you,” Dad says, kissing my cheek. His beard is short and scratchy, painful in a way Jackson’s isn’t. I smelled him only milliseconds before he made contact, and I try not to recoil. “Another Kepner grandbaby!” 

As if on cue, Peyton squeals with excitement. I can’t help but smile in response; her voice is my favorite in the world, soon to be paired with her sibling’s. 

“Yeah,” I say, and my heart rate slows as Jackson rests an arm on the back of my chair. I know it’s him instantly - it’s all in the way he smells. That’s something I’ll never lose; his aroma is very distinct. I could pick it out in a room full of a hundred men. 

He kisses my cheek, so I lean in and close my eyes. I can sense his pride - having a big family is a dream of his. It’s mine, too, it always has been. But right now, his happiness over our new addition means more than anyone else’s. 

“Pey-Pey is gonna have a little brother or sister, isn’t she,” Jackson says, and the baby leans back, which means he must be talking close to her face. I hear a kissing sound and laugh softly to myself. He’s so good with her. He’s a better father than any other man I know, though I might have a bias.

“You’re gonna have your hands full with two babies running around,” Kimmie says. “What, Peyton will be about 19 months when the little one is born?” She makes a sound of exhaustion. “That’s a lot, April.” 

I feel my face get hot. Who’s she to tell me what’s a lot and what isn’t? But instead of letting my temper get the best of me, I try to keep an even keel.

“Ah, come on, Kim,” Jackson says, his tone jovial. “You know us. We can handle anything.” 

“Well, I’m just saying,” she mutters, and I know exactly what words she doesn’t want to use. The words she doesn’t feel she  _ can  _ use. 

“They’re perfectly capable people,” Mom says, always the peacekeeper. “We don’t need to worry for them. I’m sure they’re doing plenty of that themselves! Our job is to just be happy. Right?” 

“Aren’t you scared, April?” Libby says, from far to the left. I try and find her, try to point my head in the right direction, but I’m not sure if I get it. “I mean, you must be thinking about it.” 

“Thinking about what?” Jackson says. I can’t tell if he really doesn’t know, or if he’s pushing my sister to fill in the blanks she’s left empty. 

Libby exhales loudly. “Being a blind mother must be so different from being one with sight,” she says. “Have you thought about it?” 

A laugh bubbles in my throat and bursts free before I have a say in the matter. I cover my mouth as soon as the sound escapes, but it’s already done. Peyton swivels in my lap and touches my face, and I stroke her wrist casually. She likes it when I laugh, even if she doesn’t know the reason.

“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “But… have I thought about it?” 

“Well, yeah.” 

“Seriously?”

“April, you’re being odd.”

“Do you  _ think  _ I’ve thought about the fact that I’ll never know what my new baby looks like?” I say, and my voice comes louder than I’d intended. So loud, that Peyton begins to whine and squall, so Jackson takes her. 

“I didn’t mean that,” Libby says, backtracking. “I just meant the ins and outs of things. Like feeding, walking, changing-” 

“No, you didn’t,” I say, trembling. Jackson places a hand in the middle of my shoulder blades as a silent warning, but he doesn’t stop me from talking. I’m glad, because my sisters need to hear what I’m saying. Everyone in the room should hear it. “You can’t possibly imagine what it would be like to never see your baby’s face. Can you?” 

“Well, I… I guess I didn’t think…”

“No, you didn’t,” I say. “Because you don’t have to. You don’t have to think about what you might trip over while holding your baby - either of your babies. You don’t have to think about not being able to find diapers, or putting her in an outfit that doesn’t match. Putting the stroller together wrong never crosses your mind. And you never, ever have to dwell on the fact that the last time you ever saw her face was when she was ten months old. And she’ll keep growing without you bearing witness. They’ll both get bigger. At least I’ll have Peyton’s baby face to hold onto. But with her sibling, I won’t have anything. Right?”

“April, I’m sorry, I…” 

“Hey,” Jackson says, and the timbre of his voice settles the room. “It’s okay. Everyone’s just a little worked up. It’s okay.” 

I reach for Peyton without words, seeking my comfort. Jackson hands her back, but she fusses and struggles in my grip to let me know she doesn’t want me, she wants him. He’s the soothing one in situations like this; I only escalate the emotions at play. 

“Dada,” she grunts, still squirming. 

I keep her, though, and he doesn’t fight me on it. I think I hear one of my sisters crying, or maybe it’s my mother. I can’t be sure; the sniffles sound the same. Maybe it’s all of them.

I don’t cry, though. I’m hardened, nearly steeled. If I put the fact out in plain terms as I did - that I’ll never see my younger child’s face - it’s somehow easier to stomach. 

But it’ll always get stuck in my throat going down. 

“I need… I have to get out of here,” I say, scooting back so my chair makes a loud noise against the floor.

“Hey, whoa, whoa,” Jackson says. “I’ll take the baby.” 

“I need her,” I say, holding Peyton close even as she fusses louder. 

“April, let him take her. She’s upset.” 

“I can handle this!” I snap in the direction of whoever spoke. I have no idea who it was. I close my eyes and adjust the baby on my hip, speaking with my lips close to her forehead as she quiets down. “Please, just let me go. We’ll be fine. I just don’t want everyone staring at me anymore.” 

Jackson pauses for a moment before responding with, “Okay. Okay. Just holler if you need help.” I start to walk away, then feel his hand on my wrist. “April, don’t hesitate to ask. Do you hear me?” 

“Yes,” I say, knowing how important that is after the fall in the shower - the fall that feels like forever ago. 

But this is my childhood home, and I know it without needing sight to guide me. I carry Peyton down the hall that leads to my old bedroom, and use one hand to feel for the knob. When the door comes open, it smells the same as it always did and I know for a fact it’s still decorated as I left it when I went off to college. Fuschia walls with white trim, a twin bed with a canopy, and a white desk by the window. I was lucky enough to have the room with the window seat, and I’d always loved looking out to the backyard and the woods on our property. 

Now, as I sit on the familiar cushion, I can look out but I can’t see anything. Peyton can, though. She pulls herself to a sitting position and I hear the sound of her palms against the windowpane as she hits it. 

“You see something?” I ask. “What’s out there? Tell Mama.” 

She buzzes her lips happily, and I stroke her back, just happy we’re in the same place alone together. Moments like this come few and far between, though that’s no one’s fault but my own. Jackson trusts me with her now, he proved as much by letting me leave the table with her. He knows what I’m capable of, and that should allow me to see it in myself. But that proves difficult after hearing the disbelief that followed my family’s congratulations. 

No one second-guesses a sighted mother’s ability to take care of two children. It’s not seen as anything close to a big deal. I know we put a lot on my family and I can’t expect them to understand instantly, but it still doesn’t sit right with me. It was ableist, what they said. Why would they think I couldn’t take care of my children? That if I thought the same, I’d be so selfish as to keep the one rooted inside me, still trying to grasp at life? 

I clench my jaw and try to keep my tense body language hidden from Peyton, who’s still banging on the window I’d looked out every day as a young girl. I’d sit here and read for hours, the world around me completely erased for one written on the pages. 

Then, as I sit here with my daughter as she babbles, an old realization hits me in an entirely new light. I won’t read again; at least, not in the way I was used to. 

The world seems to stop, coming to a screeching halt. When I had the time, one of my favorite things to do was curl up with a book on the couch, fire going, music playing, with my feet on Jackson’s lap.

I’ll have to learn Braille, but I don’t want to learn Braille. What I want is to have my sight back.

Making me jump, the bedroom door comes open and I clutch Peyton tighter around the belly. She grunts with disapproval, but I don’t loosen up until I hear a voice I know. 

“Hey, bitsy,” Jackson says, and his footsteps on the carpet tell me he’s coming closer. “Took me a sec to remember which one was yours.” 

“The pink,” I say. 

“Shoulda known,” he responds. 

“You’ve seen it before,” I mutter, petting Peyton’s hair. She’s settled again, leaning against my thighs as she plays with an embellishment on my shirt. 

“Been a while,” he says. “Forgot about all these medals. Biggest nerd award… most likely to get thrown in a trash can… some of the classics right here. Proud of you, babe.”

I snort, stifling a full-blown laugh. “Shut up,” I say. 

He comes to sit with us on the window seat, near my feet. He gets comfortable, pulling my legs onto his lap, and makes a satisfied, relaxed sound. 

“Is everyone talking about me?” I ask, after a pocket of silence passes. 

He takes a breath, maybe preparing to beat around the bush on how they ‘mean well,’ but he changes his mind. “Yeah,” he says, cut and dry.

“I thought so.”

“Not in a bad way,” he says. “But Kimmie was crying, which made your mom cry. I think they’re kind of realizing, you know, slowly, that this is for real. That you’re blind, and it’s not gonna change. I don’t think it really sunk in with them, even when they saw you today. ‘Cause you’re wearing the shades, and on the surface you still seem like you. I think, after what you said, they started to get it. And it’s scary for them.” 

“Of course it’s scary,” I mutter, snuggling Peyton close as she leans to rest against my chest. “They don’t know the half of it.” 

“You’re right,” he says. “But they want to. They want to talk to you about it. And they know they’re not saying the right things, and Kimmie knows she went about those questions in the wrong way. They want to make things right.” 

I turn my head so I’m not facing him anymore; instead, looking out the window I can’t see through. I imagine what outside looks like, though, and try to remember what I saw as a kid. If it were a time like any other, I’d be here with ‘Anne of Green Gables’ on my lap, the cat where Jackson is sitting, watching my dad in the barn. Or maybe watching my sisters on the jungle gym, and they’d meet my eyes and beg me to come out. I’d put the bookmark between the pages and go, just because they were always excited to have me, but I wouldn’t stay long. I could never resist the draw of the book sitting there, waiting for me to finish.

“You know, I can’t read anymore,” I mumble, knowing he has a hard time understanding when I keep my voice low. I’m not sure I want him to hear. 

“That’s not true,” he says. “You can still read. You’re not illiterate.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“So, I’ll read to you.”

“That’s not the point,” I say, exasperated.

“So, we’ll learn Braille.” 

I scrunch up my eyebrows. “We?” I ask. 

“I should get used to it. The kids will learn, too, when they’re big enough. We should have it around the house, so they can be familiar with it. It’s only fair. It’s like… it’s like, if you could only read in French, and I had everything in English. That would be cruel.” 

My face softens a bit. That was the last thing I expected him to say; it hadn’t ever crossed my mind like that. 

“What if I can’t, though?” I ask, shaking my head. “The older you get, the harder it is to learn stuff like that.” 

“But what if you can?” he says.

“I don’t know,” I say. 

“I know you miss reading,” he says, squeezing the arches of my feet. “We always used to sit like this, right? When you’d read.” 

I smile gently. “Yeah,” I say. 

“So, you’ll do it again. And I’ll learn how to read Braille, too, and you can make fun of me for how slow I am.”

“Okay,” I agree, albeit quietly. 

“We should get back out there,” he suggests, stroking my ankle with his thumb. 

“No…” I say, listening to the baby’s breathing slow down and deepen. “I don’t want to. I just want to go home.” 

He makes a disagreeable sound. “I don’t think that’s the right choice, April,” he says. 

“Well, I do,” I say, digging my heels in. 

“It’s not fair to them,” he says. “You can’t keep doing this. I understand that they upset you, and that was wrong. It was very wrong, was Kimmie said. But she wants to apologize, and you should let her. It’s not helping anyone if you just keep running away from situations you don’t like. Life doesn’t work like that.” 

“Life doesn’t work for me in a lot of ways,” I say, voice wavering. “I don’t want to go back and see them. They’ll all just fawn over me like I’m this child they need to take care of. I don’t want that.” 

“Then say something,” he says. “You can’t expect them to read your mind. You have to let them know, and trust that they’ll respect you.” 

I wipe my tears away, the ones that slide out from under the lenses of the sunglasses. “I just want everything to be like it was,” I say, shoulders bouncing with sobs. “I hate this. I don’t want this.” 

“I know,” he says, one hand capping my knee. “But you’re making it harder than it has to be.” 

“Harder?!” I shrill, then lower my voice so I don’t wake up my sleeping baby. “I’m trying to take care of myself. You think I want to make it even harder?” 

“No, I don’t think that,” he says. “But that’s still what you’ve been doing. Making it harder on yourself, on me, on Peyton. On your family. I get wanting people to suffer like you’re suffering, bitsy. I do get that. I’ve put myself in your shoes time and time again, and you are so much stronger than I could ever hope to be. You amaze me every day. But you have to learn to listen.” 

I press my face to the top of Peyton’s hair, teardrops plopping into her hair. I don’t know what to say to him, because maybe he’s right. Maybe I have been stubborn for stubborn’s sake… but don’t I have the right to be? My sight was forcibly taken from me. Don’t I have a reason to be angry? Aren’t my feelings warranted? 

But as I sit there with my baby in my arms and my husband at my feet, I know I’m taking those negative emotions out on the wrong people. Jackson didn’t throw the acid on me, it wasn’t Peyton who sent me out on the trauma mission that day. All my family has been trying to do is help. It’s frustrating, but still not their fault that they don’t fully understand. 

“Okay,” I say, slowly shifting to set my feet on the floor. “I’ll go.” 

Jackson leads me back to the common area with an arm around my waist, and I hold Peyton as she sleeps. He offers to set up a place for her in my old bed, but she’s my security blanket. Having her close makes me feel grounded in a way I’m not willing to give up. 

“Mom,” I hear a voice whisper. “It’s April.”

“Oh,” Mom says. “Honey, you’re back.” 

I nod slightly and try my best to make my expression amicable. I’m not sure how well it comes across. 

“Mouse, I’m sorry for what I said,” Kimmie chimes in, coming out of nowhere. I can’t help it; her voice makes me jump. 

“You don’t have to call me that because you feel sorry for me,” I mutter, and Jackson makes a small sound in his throat. But it’s true, I haven’t heard them call me ‘Mouse’ in years, and suddenly it’s being said like it’s going out of style. 

“I didn’t mean it,” Kimmie says. “I never wanted to offend you. I was just… curious about things, and I guess I don’t know what’s okay to ask and what’s not. I’m sorry. I’m still getting used to it.”

Not that long ago, I would’ve bitten her head off. But instead, I only say, “It’s okay. I am, too.” 

“Are we fine?” she asks, sounding eager. Her tone on its own is enough to make the pity shift from myself over to her. I don’t like hearing her sound like that. Kimmie - the one, of any of us, that’s inclined to be haughty. When she sounds like a kicked puppy, it makes me question the roles we play, and I’m questioning my life enough as it is. 

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, we’re okay.” 

“Good,” she says. 

Something inside still doesn’t sit right, though, and I can’t put my finger on what it is. As we all get comfortable in the living room for dessert, it stays on my mind and festers there, rotting. I can’t help but wonder if everything will feel put in its place ever again, or if something will always be missing. I wonder if I’ll always feel like I’m toeing the circle, never fully involved in the conversations that happen around me. I wonder if I’ll feel like an outsider among my own people for the rest of my life. 

…

Once it’s time to leave, I’m exhausted. The baby woke up, had a bottle and some diced fruit, then fell back to sleep in her car seat. We leave the car door open while we say goodbye, and I know my family will spend too long fussing over me when we should already be on the road. All I want is to shut my eyes and turn my brain off for a while. 

“Come back soon,” my mom says, holding my cheek. I resist the urge to pull away; I’m not the biggest fan of people touching my face anymore because of the scar tissue. I know it must feel strange and foreign. “Promise me you will.”

“I promise, mom,” I say, and she pulls me in for another hug. I close my eyes and melt into her, something I know she’s been craving, and she holds me for a long time. 

“I love you,” she says, solidifying each word like a promise. “You know that, right?” 

“Of course I do,” I say, picturing her face and her inevitably teary eyes. “I promise, we’ll be back before you know it.” 

“And call,” she says. “Please, lord, the phone works both ways.” 

“Yes, mom,” I say, an upward tilt to my voice. 

“Bye, Karen,” Jackson calls, and takes my hand. He takes it, but waits until I step towards the car to lead me, and I throw one last wave in what I hope is the right direction. “You good?” he asks, lingering in the open door. 

“Yep,” I say, and he shuts it. 

Jackson puts the car in reverse and I rest my head back, closing my eyes to let out a long exhale. I cross my arms over my belly, hoping the baby wasn’t upset by all the commotion today, then reach for Jackson’s hand. 

“Hey, baby,” he says, squeezing my fingers. 

“Hi.” 

“How ya feelin’?” 

“Sleepy,” I say. “So tired.” 

“Take a rest,” he says, lifting my hand to press his lips to the knuckles. “I’ll get us home.” 

I do as he says and turn my head to the side, tipping my chair back a little bit. I fall asleep almost instantly; it feels good to be lulled by the motion of the car and the soft music on the radio, until I fall into a disturbing dream. 

I’m in the middle of a pitch black room, which isn’t much different from what I see on a daily basis. It does count as different in my dreams, though, being that I can usually see during them, which is why I’m partial to sleeping when I’m sad. But not this one. For this I’m stuck in a chair, unseeing, but feeling everything. From the whisper of breath on my neck, the brush of a fingernail across my shoulder, to the way my skirt flutters in response to someone moving alongside me. 

I call out to ask who’s there, but get no response. I can sense that someone else is in the room with me, though. It’s something I’ve gotten good at. So, I don’t give up. I keep asking who’s there, but my answer doesn’t come with words. Instead, it comes with hands all over me. Over every single inch of my body - wrapped around my ankles and my neck and everywhere in between. I gasp for breath as they strangle me, but two hands soon cover my mouth as I try to scream. Then, the only light in the room comes on and it shines right in the person’s face - and I see it’s Vince Michaels with glinting eyes, smiling that devilish smile. Before I can do anything to stop him, he removes his hands and covers my mouth with his own, suffocating me in a kiss similar to the one he branded me with on the night of the party. I try and scream again, but the sound only dissolves into his mouth and he steals my power yet again.

I jolt awake, scrambling for something to hold onto. “Jackson?” I say, hearing how alarmed I sound. “Jackson?” 

“Baby, I’m right here,” he says. “I’m driving. We’re still in the car.”

“Oh,” I say, then find his hand. I grip it tight, resting the other over my heart. “Oh.” 

“You okay?” he asks. “Bad dream?”

I exhale loudly, letting my chin fall to hit my chest. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah… bad dream.” 

“What was it?” he asks conversationally. 

I shake my head and press my lips together, not knowing if I should resurface this. It put us in such a bad place when it happened, but it became overshadowed with everything else. I was stupid to think it could stay buried forever. 

“I don’t know,” I say, barely moving my lips.

He reaches to hold my thigh, almost able to grip the whole thing in his fingers. “Hey,” he says. “I can pull over if you want.” 

“No, don’t do that,” I say, overlapping his hand with mine. Feeling those familiar veins brings me back to a calm place and reminds me who I’m with. Vince isn’t next to me, holding me, Jackson is. Mine and Vince’s child isn’t sleeping in the back seat or resting in my belly, mine and Jackson’s are. I’m safe, I’m where I’m supposed to be, I’m here with my husband. 

But still, that dream made me feel violated in way I haven’t since that night. It’s a feeling I didn’t want back. 

“In the dream,” I say. “It was Vince. His hands… they were all over me, and his mouth…” I shudder. “I don’t wanna say.” 

“Oh, god.” 

A bad taste appears in my mouth as I rewind to when everything happened. Jackson was right; I shouldn’t have been as nice as I was. Maybe I did lead him on. Maybe I’m to blame for all of it… what do people say about the butterfly effect? 

“I’m sorry, Jackson,” I say. 

“What are you talking about?” he says. “Why are you sorry?” 

“For… I don’t know. Not acting right while it was happening. Not taking the proper measures, not taking his creepiness more seriously. You tried to tell me. You’re right. I don’t listen.” 

“Hey, no, no, no,” he says, holding my leg tighter. “No. Baby. You don’t have to apologize. Please, don’t. I’m the one who should. I acted like a fuckin’ ass to you. I said some things that I still think about, and they were really messed up. I am so sorry about that.” He sighs, inhales, pausing to think about what comes next. “The accident put things in perspective for what really matters. And I shouldn’t have gotten so pissed off about Vince. I mean, yes, I’m still furious that he would do that. He’s a pig who should rot. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. That was wrong, and I… I’m really sorry.” 

“I thought it would just disappear from my head,” I admit softly, outlining the shape of his hand with one finger. “I guess that was pretty stupid.” 

“No,” he says. “Nothing you think is stupid.” 

“Thanks,” I say. “For saying all that. Maybe it’ll help the memory just… go away, or something. I don’t know.” 

“Maybe you should talk to someone about it,” he says, and by his tone I can tell he knows he’s walking on thin ice. “Just a thought.” 

I resist the urge to shut him down or out. Instead, I hold the words in my palms and tuck them close to my chest, saving them for later. “Maybe,” I say. 

…

A week passes, and when Jackson goes to work I sit in the living room with the piano like it’s another sentient being. I can feel it in the corner, existing, practically breathing, but I don’t make any moves to go near it. I’m still not ready, after what happened last time. It’s a waste of space and was definitely a waste of money - Jackson essentially spent thousands of dollars on an ostentatious decoration.

But all week, I sit in relatively the same spot, the TV on in the background. Peyton goes to daycare - though we fought about it. Jackson was calm and logical in his reasoning; he doesn’t think I’m ready yet, and in all honesty, I don’t think I am, either. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that I feel stripped as a mother when I’m home all day while Peyton spends it with strangers. I should be able to take care of her, but I can’t. I still can’t. 

It’s not because I don’t want to, because I do. More than anything, I want to spend quiet days at home with my baby, but that’s just not possible. While we fought, I cried and moaned, but Jackson didn’t relent. It was like fighting two against one - both Jackson and my realism on one side, and the idealistic portion of me on the other. It was a losing battle, and we both knew it. Every morning this week that he left with her and she whined for me, it broke off another piece of my heart. I tried to hide it, though. It was no use making him feel worse.

But when the workdays finally come to an end and the weekend is upon us, I feel even worse than I did being alone. This weekend, we’re fitting in an ultrasound and therapy, both of which I’m nervous over for very different reasons. Some would call it cruel to put them on the same day, but I’m glad to be getting them over with.

The baby babbles in the back seat on the way to the hospital, sounding happy. We got her to eat something new this morning - peas. She’s never taken much to them before, but she went crazy in her high chair while Jackson and I had oatmeal. He was laughing as she apparently smashed them all over her face, and I tried my best to picture it. 

“What ya talkin’ about back there, Peanut butter?” he asks.

She shrieks, and I hear the sounds of her legs hitting the car seat. I smile to myself, imagining what her joy looks like. She has the best smile. 

“Thinkin’ about those peas?” Jackson asks, using the tone he saves specifically for her. He chuckles to himself. “Getting so big, trying new foods. Someone’s got a birthday coming up, too,” he says.

I get a strange feeling in my chest as I realize that he’s right. I’d lost track of time. Of course, the day of Peyton’s first birthday could never slip my mind - May 21st, a day unlike any other. But it’s hard for me to stay on top of the passing days, and I’m never quite sure what one we’re on. 

“What day is it?” I ask, a bit urgently. What if I already missed it? 

“15th,” he says. 

“Why didn’t you say something before?” I ask, immediately putting the blame on him. 

“I thought you knew…” he says, sounding confused. 

“How would I know?” I snap, fighting tears. “I never leave the house. I can’t read the calendar.”

“April…” he says. “Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” 

I wipe hastily at my eyes, knowing I’m being unfair. “You don’t have to say sorry,” I say. “I just… sometimes, I feel like I’m living in this bubble and I don’t know how to get out. I didn’t even realize my own kid’s birthday was coming up.” I shake my head. “That’s horrible. I can’t… that’s just horrible.” 

“No, it’s not,” he says. “She doesn’t know, either. Does that make you feel better?” 

I have to laugh at that - a sad-sounding, pathetic chuckle. He’s right, though; Peyton is in the back seat talking to herself in baby talk and probably chewing on her hands. 

“We should do something special,” I say. 

“Yeah?” he says. “I was thinking that, too. Maybe have some ankle-biters from daycare over to the house, or something.” 

“And our friends,” I say.

“If you want,” he says, treading carefully. 

“She deserves a nice party,” I say, though my stomach is already toiling with nerves as I imagine all those people in my space. At my house, where I can’t so easily just leave or remove myself. But Peyton shouldn’t be stripped of her milestones just because I can’t handle social gatherings. I can get through a few hours. 

“Let’s talk about it later,” he says. “I’m sure Izzie would love to bake stuff.” 

“Yeah.” 

When we get to the hospital, Jackson helps me out of the car and continues to support me all the way inside. I keep a good grip on Peyton, who busies herself by touching different features of my face, while trying to ignore the familiar smell of the hospital. Being back here reminds of that day I woke up in darkness for the first time. Each little detail brings everything catapulting back like it happened just moments ago. 

It’s a different feeling, though, as I lie on an exam bed with cool jelly on my stomach and a kind ultrasound technician to my right. She speaks in a low, soothing tone, and she makes just enough conversation. Not too much, but we aren’t left in awkward silence, either. 

She gushes over how beautiful Peyton is, and tells us our unborn baby is doing great. I’m about three months along now, which puts the date of conception just a week or so before the accident. It adds up, it makes sense, and a huge sense of relief fills me as I realize that none of my trauma affected the fetus’s growth and development. 

“So, they’re doing okay?” I ask, hands folded behind my head. I hope I’m looking in the right direction. 

“Better than okay,” she says. “Everything is right on track. Just take these vitamins I’m prescribing, keep eating healthy and exercising, and you got this in the bag. I’ll see you back here in a few weeks.” 

She leaves the room after cleaning the jelly off, and I hear Peyton’s voice as she either talks to herself or her daddy. I rest one hand on my stomach, still bare with my shirt pulled up, and stroke the skin with one thumb. 

I can’t help but relive the conversation from my parents’ house. The fact has never been heavier that, right now, there’s a life growing inside me that I will never see. I’ll hold them, nurture them, love them beyond all means, but I’ll never see them with my own eyes. Not in the moment they’re born; I won’t stare into their eyes and know I did something right by creating that baby. Not in the middle of the night, going into their room just to watch them sleep. Not during their first steps, or their first prom. I won’t see any of it. 

“Hey,” Jackson says, surprising me with a touch to my wrist. 

“Yeah,” I mutter, assuming he probably knows what I was thinking. He’s gotten better than ever at reading my mind.

“I’m here,” he says.

“I know,” I respond. 

“No, but…” he begins. “I’m here. Right here, and so are you. And so is she.”

As if on cue, Peyton makes a silly sound. I wish I could see the grin that was undoubtedly paired with it.

“And so is the tiny one. We’re all right here.” 

He’s not wrong, we’re all together. In one small, warm room. But I don’t want his voice to assure me of that, I want to see it for myself. I don’t know if taking his word for it will ever be enough. 

…

After the appointment, Jackson drives to Lakeview, where my group therapy is located. It’s held in a hospital on Wellington, and my hands are shaking by the time we pull up in the parking lot. I don’t say anything as he helps me inside, and I let him hold the baby. My arms feel too weak to keep her upright at the moment. 

We find the room where we’re supposed to meet, and exchange introductions with the group leader. 

“Good afternoon,” she says, and I learn her name is Cassandra. “There are chairs just inside. Spouses are welcome to stay, but we encourage our participates to embrace their autonomy and attend alone. It’s a personal choice, though. Whatever you choose is okay.” 

I stop in my tracks, and it takes Jackson a second or two realize I’m no longer following him. 

“Everything alright?” he asks. “Baby, you coming?” 

“Yes,” I say, wringing my hands. I’m not sure how to say what comes next. I take a few steps forward to find him, then run my hands up his chest. I cup his jaw and stand on my tiptoes to draw his face close to mine, then give him a gentle kiss on the lips. I work up the gumption to say, “But I think I want to do this alone.” 

With my hands still on his face, I feel the shock written in his expression. “Oh…” he says, words catching in his throat. “Oh, yeah, sure. Of course. I should’ve… I should’ve asked.” He clears his throat, then kisses my forehead. “You sure?” 

“Yeah,” I say, nodding, stroking his beard with my thumbs. “I think I want to. I’m ready.”

“Okay,” he says, and this time I hear a smile in his voice. “Alright. Well, we’ll wait in the car then.” He pauses before asking one more time, “You sure you’re sure?” 

I chuckle a bit, smirking before kissing him goodbye. When I pull away, I give a solid nod and say, “I’m sure.” 


	12. Chapter 12

**JACKSON**

I’m not sure what to do without April by my side. 

Of course, I’ve been without her before. Plenty of times. But now, it’s different. Since the accident, I haven’t left her someplace unfamiliar without being there to guide her. Staying alone at the house is different. Now, she’s in a new place full of strangers, and I can’t help but worry. 

I glance in the rearview mirror back at Peyton in her car seat, unbuckled because we aren’t moving. She has one hand in her mouth, banging her feet against the seat, staring out the window at who-knows-what. 

“Whatcha thinkin’, P?” I say, catching her attention. 

Her face erupts in a wide grin, eyes crinkling like April’s do. “Da,” she says, through her spitty hand. 

“Thinkin’ about me?” I say, raising my eyebrows. “That’s so nice.”

“Da da da da da,” she babbles, banging her feet harder. She takes her wet hand out of her mouth and reaches towards me, stretching her fingers wide. “Baba,” she says.

“I don’t have a baba on me,” I say. “I have some Puffs, though. I think they’re banana flavored. Is that alright with you?” 

She shrieks happily when I open the container and hand it back, leaving her to her own devices as she munches happily on the baby snack. I let out a long sigh as I watch her, and she gives me a multiple-toothed grin. 

“Mama,” she says, squinting happily. 

“Who you callin’ mama,” I say, reaching to squeeze her chunky calf. She blows a raspberry when I do that, still grinning. “I ain’t yo mama.”

“Mama!” she screeches, throwing her head back. 

I shake my head with amusement, chin resting in one hand. “Well, I’m thinking about her, too,” I say, and the baby watches me intently while still gnawing open-mouthed on the Puffs. “You think she’s doing okay in there?” 

Peyton doesn’t respond. She just keeps chewing, getting her face and hands all messy. She blinks her aqua eyes at me with those mile-long eyelashes, and I sigh again. 

“You think we should’ve stayed with her?” I close my eyes for a moment. “She asked us to leave, though. She wanted to do it by herself.” I massage my temples with one hand. “But how do we know if she was ready?” 

I shrug and look at the clock to see how much time has passed, hoping that the hour is almost up. I’m disappointed to see that it’s barely been fifteen minutes, though it seems like an eternity has gone by. 

Interrupting my thoughts, Peyton winds back and chucks the container of Puffs across the car so it lands in the open trunk, then squeals with delight at what she’s done.

“That was a little much, don’t you think?” I ask, watching her as she turns around to look where they landed. She stands on her knees in the car seat and proceeds to climb out, monkeying around the back seat and exploring every corner. 

She’s obviously antsy like I am, and we could go somewhere to let off steam. I’m sure there’s a playground nearby that she’d love. But I can’t bring myself to leave this parking lot. I feel far enough from April as it is, and going further would only make things worse. What if she needs me? What if there’s an emergency?

“Sorry, P,” I say, though she doesn’t seem disappointed. The back seat is enough of a jungle gym for her. “Doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere.” 

I turn on some music and keep an eye on the baby so she doesn’t get too rowdy, and wait as the minutes slowly tick by. I wonder how April is feeling in there; if she’s confident or staying quiet. I can’t picture her in a therapy setting,  because it’s not something either of us have done before. She’s in uncharted territory, all on her own. 

But it’s what she wanted. I have to keep reminding myself of that. I know she can’t lean on me forever, not for everything, and she had to take the first step sometime. It’s just happening so fast. I don’t want her to get overwhelmed and throw in the towel. 

When it’s five minutes until the hour, I get out and carry Peyton face-forward on my chest, one arm under her butt to act as a seat. 

“Ready to go get your mama?” I ask, securing my other arm around her middle like a seatbelt. “Who’s ready to see Mama?” 

She buzzes her lips and laughs, and I plant a big kiss on the top of her head. I breathe her in for a moment, closing my eyes while standing just outside the community center doors, and give her a squeeze. I’m not a godly man by any means - I respect religion for my wife’s sake - but when Peyton was born, I couldn’t help but think that there had to be a higher power somewhere. She was just too perfect. And she still is. She keeps getting better and better. And now, we’re going to have another one. 

I don’t think I’ve fully wrapped my head around it yet, that there will be two babies in our house before long. There’s been so much going on with April’s accident and recovery, that those thoughts haven’t taken a front seat. I feel guilty, having paid our second child hardly any attention, when that’s all I did for Peyton while she was inside April’s belly. Before April was even showing, I’d lie next to her at night and talk to the fetus through a toilet paper tube. And now, that fetus is a beautiful, squishy baby that’s wiggling in my arms, talking to me in gibberish.

It’s hard to know what April is comfortable with and what she’s not, though. I don’t want to make a huge deal out of the new baby if that’s not what she wants. But isn’t a huge deal what the baby deserves? It’s all so confusing, and so difficult to talk about. I hate fighting with her, but sometimes it seems we speak two different languages and can’t see eye-to-eye.

As I walk through the automatic doors of the building, I let myself wonder if the new baby will be a boy or a girl. April has always wanted two boys and a girl, but I think this one will be our last. I’m not sure if she could handle more. 

I’m not a worrier; I usually leave that up to her, but I’d be inhuman if I wasn’t worrying about how all of this will play out. April still isn’t confident in her abilities as a blind person, and I have no way of knowing where she’ll be in six months when the baby arrives. Will I be capable of watching two little ones under two at that point?

Right now, the thought exhausts me. Peyton isn’t exactly a hard child, but she has her difficult moments that leave me harried, stressed, and feeling like I might go gray early. I assume those moments will only increase as she grows into toddlerhood, and imagining them alongside a fragile, sensitive newborn almost makes me fall to the ground on the spot. 

It’s exactly what we wanted - a big family with kids close in age. But we never knew it would come to fruition quite like this. It’s not that I don’t want it anymore - I’d create as many beautiful kids with April as she’d allow. But it’s still terrifying. I’d like to think I’m a good dad; I know everything about Peyton and how to take care of her, especially since April has been incapacitated. But the thought alone of having two tiny ones at once is enough to send me reeling. 

As we get closer to the entrance, I force myself to stop thinking and direct my mind towards April. My stomach is jittery as I adjust the baby and place her on my hip, and she reaches to first tug on my earlobe, then run her soft hand over the stubble on my face. 

“Where’s Mama?” I ask her, and she sticks her fingers in my mouth. “Hey!” I say, then pretend to eat them, which cracks her up. She lets out a long, shrill screech that grabs the attention of a few passers-by, who look over and smile. 

I peek through the rectangular window of the door and see the group leader, Cassandra, talking to April individually as everyone else gets up to leave. As I look around, I notice service dogs and white canes, some people wearing dark sunglasses, most of them smiling. I hold the door open for those leaving and get thanked profusely. I’m too loud when I say ‘you’re welcome’ and that makes me feel like an ass. Just because they can’t see doesn’t mean they can’t hear. I should know better.

It takes April a bit longer to find her way to the door. After Cassandra is finished talking, she guides her by the elbow to where I’m standing and gives me a cordial, polite smile. 

“Thanks for coming today, April,” she says. “I enjoyed having you. I hope we’ll see you back in a week?” 

“I plan on it,” April says. 

“Good. And you’ll look into those resources I told you about,” she says. 

“Yes,” April says, and I realize she’s holding a few brochures. I scrunch my eyebrows and wonder why a support group for blind people wouldn’t have thought ahead and put the information on tape, or something. How the hell would she read that if she didn’t have me? 

“Great. Well, have a wonderful night.” 

She walks away and I rest an arm on April’s lower back, studying her face for any telltale signs of how she might be feeling. I rub circles over her spine while keeping the baby upright on the opposite hip, and she reciprocates and winds an arm around my back, too. I pull her close because it feels good, and drop a kiss to her floral-scented hair. 

“You good, babe?” I ask, smoothing the nonexistent frizz down. 

She nods while plucking at my shirt absentmindedly. I watch her face for a moment without her knowing, then lead us to the car. I open the passenger’s side first, then buckle Peyton in to her car seat as she finds spilled Puffs from earlier and pops them in her mouth. 

“Me and Peanut were having a ball out here,” I say, clicking the buckle. “She was climbin’ all over everything. Had a snack, too.” 

“That’s good,” April says, a bit reserved.

“Yeah,” I say, then get comfortable with both hands on the wheel. I lick my lips and shift the car into gear, wondering how I should go about asking what I’m wondering about. “She was telling me about her birthday party. Turns out, she wants princess theme.” 

“Oh,” April says, chin resting on her closed fist as she leans on the armrest.

I pull out of the parking space and start to drive, keeping the music off so I won’t have an excuse not to talk. I want to get it out of her - how the session went - but I don’t want her to feel rushed or pressured to share if she doesn’t want to. 

So, I drive a couple miles towards home before clearing my throat and starting in. “So…” I say, tapping my thumbs on the wheel. “All in all, how did it go? How’d you feel?” 

She waits a while before answering, but I can tell she’s going to. She sits up from where she’d been leaning against the door and rests with her palms open on her lap, head hanging low. 

“Good,” she says. “Mostly.” 

“Well, that’s good,” I say. “Did you feel alright about going by yourself?” 

She nods. “Yeah. No one else had anyone with them.”

“Cool,” I say, though there’s so much more I want to fill this space with. “What kind of stuff did you guys talk about? I saw Cassandra pulled you aside at the end there.”

She sighs and says, “Yeah. Because I’m new, she wanted to get me acclimated, I guess. She recommended a mobility instructor, you know, someone who can teach me how to get around. She was talking about white canes and seeing-eye dogs. And she told me about someone who can teach me Braille, when I’m ready.” 

“That’s awesome,” I say, chest feeling much lighter than it did before she stepped into that room. This sounds like it was the best thing that could’ve happened for her. 

“Yeah,” she says, though she doesn’t sound quite as thrilled. 

I look over when we pull into the driveway and find her lips pursed, like she’s trying to hold back tears. I open my mouth to say something but second-guess myself, closing it and turning away to get Peyton from the back. 

The baby is calmer now, but cranky because she’s hungry for dinner. She fusses in my arms while I open April’s door and guide her to the house with a hand securely rested on her tricep. We don’t say anything. I just unlock the door, get us inside and situated, and start cooking dinner with Peyton in her high chair and April sitting at the kitchen table looking uncomfortable and somewhat lost. 

“You wanna take your shoes off?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder. “Also, does breakfast for dinner sound okay?” 

“Sure,” she says, though I’m not positive what question she’s answering. 

I furrow my eyebrows and turn to look at her with her elbows on her knees, leaning forward as she stares at the floor, unseeing. Her eyes are half-lidded, but I don’t know if that’s purposeful or not. 

“Here,” I say, and kneel in front of her. I quickly and carefully unlace her shoes, gently cupping the heel to get them off her small feet. I squeeze the arches once she’s only in socks, then give her kneecap a casual kiss. “There. Better?” 

“Yeah,” she says, but her heart isn’t in it.

I stand to my full height, still studying her. Something isn’t right. “Baby, you okay?” I ask, touching her shoulder. 

She doesn’t respond at first; she doesn’t even open her mouth. She closes her eyes, though, and covers her face with her hands, and that’s enough of an answer in itself. Though, I can’t be sure what the issue is until she lets me in. 

“What…” she whimpers, then clears her throat to try and make her voice stronger. All I can do is watch her and wait for the answer, whatever it may be. “What if I’m never ready?”

I frown and try to decipher what she means, backtracking what she might be referencing. I can’t seem to remember, though, which makes me feel guilty. 

“I’m sorry, honey,” I say. “But what do you mean?”

“I mean,” she says. “That I’m not ready for all this. All…” She gestures with her arms, widening them out in a rounded shape. “All these things. The cane, the dog, the Braille. This isn’t the life I wanted.” 

She starts crying, but I don’t move to comfort her. Instead, I stay hovering where I am and wonder how many times we’ve gone over this. I’m aware that it can’t be an easy thing to stomach, but I’ve done everything in my power to make her new life the best it can be. And when she says stuff like that, it seems like she’s throwing my hard work back in my face. 

“Well,” I say, trying not to sound terse. “It’s the life you have, though.”

She rips her hands away and looks at me with tear-stained cheeks, shimmering in the light of the kitchen. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and an errant sob breaks loose, causing her entire top half to rattle. 

“God, Jackson,” she hiccups, still trying to catch her breath. “You don’t get it at all.” 

“What?” I snap. “What don’t I get?’

“You can’t-” 

“I’ve tried to do everything right in the past few months. And nothing is good enough for you. Nothing, ever! I don’t know what I’m supposed to say anymore, because everything that comes out of my mouth is wrong. According to you.” 

My words surprise even myself. I wasn’t consciously aware I was feeling these things, but judging by how easily they came out, they’d been festering for a while. My mouth tastes sour after they pass my lips, and my skin is hot. 

“You don’t get to be mad about this,” she says, still sitting while I stand. 

I don’t like the power dynamic that puts between us; I wish she’d get up, too. As of right now, it feels like I’m shouting down into her face. I’m shouting into my disabled wife’s face, angry that she’s traumatized from being blinded by acid thrown in her face. What kind of monster am I?

“I’m allowed to be upset!” she continues, jabbing herself in the chest with one rickety finger. “For five fucking minutes, I’m allowed to cry without you telling me that ‘this is my life now.’ You think I don’t know, Jackson? I don’t need you reminding me.”

“You still have people who love you,” I say, trying to lower my voice. There’s nothing I hate more than fighting with her - getting angrier and angrier while she devolves into tears. “You still have me and P. And your family, and everyone at the hospital.” 

“I know!” she shrieks, and I notice her hands are shaking. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I went blind without any say in the matter. It just happened. One stupid day, out of the blue. You don’t know how it feels to live in a completely different world than everyone else. To have to learn how to read again, to use a cane. I am allowed to grieve everything I lost that day, Jackson.”

“I know…” I say, shaking my head slightly. “That’s not what I’m saying.” 

“And I don’t mean to be biting your head off all the time,” she says. “But you can’t fix me. And you keep trying. With all the sweet things you say, buying me the piano, babying me. You can’t cushion me forever. Just once, can you agree with me that this just fucking sucks?” 

My mouth falls open, waiting for the words that won’t come. I’m not sure how to fill in the blank, because I don’t want to say something wrong. 

“What?” she says, noticing my silence. 

“I don’t know,” I say.

“It’s something,” she retorts.

I let out a long breath as my throat clogs up. I rub my eyes roughly and glance at the baby, who’s privy to all this. She meets my eyes when I look over, but only for a fleeting second. After, she returns to the diced-up kiwi on her high chair tray and doesn’t give us another thought. 

“I don’t know how to treat you sometimes,” I say, finally admitting it aloud. “You need my help, but then you don’t want it. I don’t want to baby you, but you can’t do certain things on your own. You say these negative, depressing things, and I only counteract them because I don’t want you to hate your life. I… I don’t know. It’s not that I don’t know you, but sometimes I don’t recognize you. And I’m still getting used to it. So… I’m sorry.” 

Now, she takes a turn being quiet. She chews on the inside of her cheek and tucks her hair behind her ears, taking her time with a response. 

“Well, I feel the same way,” she says. “Most of the time, I don’t know myself either.” 

“It’s not that,” I say. “I’ll always know you. From that very first day, in the bookstore. And I gave you shit. That’s still us. That’s still you.” 

Her shoulders deflate when she asks, “Is it?” 

“Yes,” I insist. “When you introduced yourself in that stupid pathology class, I knew I was gonna marry you. Right then, seriously. I knew.” 

A ghost of a smile finds its way to her lips, and I caress her face softly. She doesn’t flinch. 

“I haven’t looked back since,” I say. 

“So, what are you trying to say?” she asks. 

I try and piece the words together, though they’ve never come easily for me. Articulation is her thing, not mine. “I don’t want anyone but you,” I say. “Seeing or not, resentful or not. I just need to know that you want the same thing.” 

Her whole expression changes - expands and opens. “Why would I want anything else?” she says. 

“I don’t know,” I say. “I never do anything right. You said so yourself.” 

“Neither do I,” she says. “I know I can be horrible to you.” She reaches and holds my face, stroking my skin with both thumbs. “But it’s us, boo.” 

My face warms at the use of that nickname. It used to be one that she threw into everyday sentences, but I haven’t heard it in ages. It reminds me of how things used to be, so much easier though we hadn’t known it. Why didn’t we soak in those carefree, simple years together? Why didn’t we appreciate them more?

We hadn’t known what life would throw us. And at this point, I don’t think anything else could possibly come our way. But April is right. It’s us. 

…

Sitting at the dining room table a few days later, April’s cane rests next to the chair she’s in. She opted for one that isn’t collapsible, being that she wanted it to be strong and lasting. She’s still learning how to use it - her first appointment with the mobility instructor is next week - but she’s been trying it out and practicing around the house. It pisses her off more than anything.

At first, we tried to entertain the idea that it would be fun, but she gets frustrated every time she practices. She doesn’t quite know the correct way to use it yet, and it makes her angry. So, most of the time, it just sits against her chair and looks pretty. 

Right now, she has a book on Braille open that she’s trying to study, and I’m writing out plans for Peyton’s birthday party this upcoming weekend. I steal glances at her while she runs her fingers over the dots and mouths words to herself, feeling my chest swell with pride over how she’s dedicated herself to learning. She’ll receive formal lessons soon, but she wanted to test out the book on her own first. It has a speaking function that says the letter, then she traces the shape with her finger to memorize it. I’ve heard the alphabet spoken in a robotic, monotone voice more from that thing than I do any of Peyton’s baby books. 

“So, your family, my mom, Izzie and George, Mark, Lexie and Poppy, Bailey and Ben, Callie and Arizona, Owen and Amelia… how’s that guest list sound?” I ask.

“Richard,” she mutters, without lifting her head. “Alex and Jo.” 

“Oh, shit,” I say, quickly writing them down. “You’re right.” 

Next, I work on creating an E-invitation on Facebook, opening the page after finding a picture for the banner - an adorable one of Peyton that we had taken a few months ago. She’s wearing a blue dress, lying on her back on some fuzzy carpet, looking like an angel. There’s no way anyone could decline while looking at that face. 

“So, on Saturday,” I continue. “2?” 

She shakes her head. “She’ll be sleeping, Jackson,” she says. “Think.” 

I close my eyes and try not to feed into the tension in the room. She’s frustrated with herself, not me - the curse words under her breath were enough of a giveaway. 

“Right,” I say. “So, how about 4 to 6? That’s enough time for a baby party, right?” 

“Should be.” 

“Cool,” I say, then put that down in the time slot. 

Suddenly, April smacks the table with an open hand and growls. She doesn’t explain why, and I don’t ask for details. I can’t imagine learning is very easy, but I leave her to it. I’ve been doing my best not to baby her anymore. 

She presses the button on the side of the book and it says, “B.” 

“I know,” she mutters, then presses a different one. 

“D. D. D. D.” 

“Shut up,” she says, then flips the page back to where she’d been before, still trying to decipher the same word that set her off. 

“I was gonna stop by Party City and get the decorations tomorrow after work,” I say. “You want me to pick you up so you can go with?”

“I guess,” she says, still tracing. I can see, written to the left of it, that the word in question is ‘bed.’ I don’t tell her, though. She can figure it out. 

“You guess?” I say, raising my eyebrows. All I get in return is a shrug and concentrated lines in the middle of her forehead. “Okay, then. How about cake? I heard Sweet Mandy B’s in Lincoln Park makes amazing birthday cakes.”

“Do that, then.” 

“Are we even gonna discuss it?” I ask. 

“You seem to have it pretty figured out already,” she says, hunched over the book. 

I shoot her a look and feel guilty instantly after. I shouldn’t give her dirty looks when she can’t see them, that’s not fair. But she isn’t being very fair, either. After the conversation turned fight turned makeup sex that we had the other night, we’ve both been trying to be better. But we’re still human. The situation is still just as awful as it was before we found common ground.

“What should she wear?” I ask. “I was thinking a onesie with the word ‘one’ printed on it and a little tutu.” 

“Yeah,” she mutters, eyes closed now. 

“April,” I say. “Do you even care?” 

“Does it matter?” she snaps, face glowing red. “To me, should it even matter? Just do what you want, Jackson. Because Peyton won’t care, and I can’t see shit anyway!” 

“Jesus Christ,” I say, setting my phone down roughly on the table. “You have to stop this.” 

I get up from the table to go to the kitchen for water, and her voice rings out instantly after. “You can’t just walk away,” she says. “I can’t tell where you are. You know that. Why do you do that?!”

“I’m getting a glass of water,” I say, trying to keep my cool. “Is that allowed?” 

“No,” she says, shoving her chair out. She pats along the table to find the cane, and successfully wraps her fingers around the handle. When she turns around to come towards me, she looks more natural with it than she has until this point. “I was talking to you. You can’t just walk away from a blind person.” 

“It’s ten feet, April.” 

“I was talking!” she insists, and waves the cane this way and that on the floor in a manner I’m sure isn’t recommended. “Where are you?” 

“In the kitchen,” I repeat, flustered. 

“God damn it, Jackson,” she says, still wielding the cane. I take a big sip of my water, then choke because the cane smacks me in the ankle and makes me spit some out. 

“Shit!” I say. “Don’t hit me with that.”

“Found you,” she says, apples of her cheeks flushed pink. She gives me another twack on the shin, not hard enough to hurt badly, but enough to sting. 

“Hey!” I say. “That one was on purpose. Quit.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she says, but a smile plays at the corners of her lips. “I’m just trying to find you, since you think running away from someone who can’t see is fun.” 

“I was thirsty,” I say. “Ow!” She gives me another whack on the opposite ankle, and I set my glass down. “You’re in for it, little lady.” 

She shrieks, mouth wide open and eyes round, too. As I make a beeline for her with my arms outstretched, she drops the cane and tries to run, but doesn’t get far before I scoop her up and lift her feet from the ground.

“Not so big and bad without your weapon, huh?” I say playfully, swinging her small body around while she laughs louder and harder than I’ve heard in forever. “What are you gonna smack me with now?” 

“Hey!” she says, breathless because she’s giggling so much. “Get off me!” 

“I don’t think so,” I say. “Not that easy.” 

I carry her to the couch and plop her onto the cushions while she still smiles, then cover her body with mine. 

“You’re gonna crush me,” she says, both hands on my sternum. 

“Good,” I say, and kiss her neck. 

She tips her head up and strokes my ankle - the spot where she’d hit me - with one socked foot. “Did I get you good, baby?” she asks. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” 

“Nah,” I say, threading my fingers through her hair to kiss her. “I’m tough.” 

She lets out a content little sigh and kisses me back, then runs her hands over my head. “Your hair’s too long,” she whispers.

“Haven’t heard you say that in a while,” I note. 

“Perks of having a blind wife,” she murmurs, then laughs at her own joke. 

She keeps the smile on her face as she rubs her nose against mine, and I keep my eyes open. The whites of hers don’t unsettle me anymore - in fact, looking into them is becoming more and more familiar. Though it might not seem possible, they’ve become personified and they’re still so her. Her eyebrows have grown almost all the way back in, and she’s slowly being glued back together. Inch by inch, step by step, day by day.

“I love you, blind wife,” I say, then kiss her cheek. 

She pauses for a moment and inhales softly, just holding my face. Then, she softens again and smiles, tilting her head to kiss me slow. When we pull apart, she pulls me closer with one leg and says, “I love you too, boo.” 

…

“Do you want your blue dress, or the purple one?”

April and I are standing in the walk-in closet while Peyton plays in the empty tub, already dressed in her party clothes. Like I’d planned, she’s wearing a white onesie with the word ‘one’ in gold lettering with a pink and gold tutu on the bottom. When I put her in the outfit, I rushed into the room where April was and nearly gushed over how cute she was, saying ‘you have to see this.’ 

Luckily, I stopped myself before that could happen. Today has been good so far, and I want to keep it that way. 

“The blue wrap dress?” she asks, standing in her bra and underwear. 

“Yeah.” 

“Sure, that one,” she says. “Can you help me? The fabric gets all scrunched.” 

“Of course,” I say, and lift it over her head, careful of her already-done hair. 

It’s curled today, which it hasn’t been in a long time, because I spent all last night watching YouTube videos and practicing until I got it right. I’m proud to say that - though the curls don’t look as good as if she’d done them herself - I didn’t do too bad.

The makeup, though, I’m not as skilled at. I helped with mascara, but she knew without even seeing that I went too heavy on the blush. So, I just acted as her eyes for that. We had laughed that there wouldn’t have been a need to hire a clown for the party if I was in charge of the rouge, and I smile to myself just thinking about it. 

“Is it okay?” she asks, wringing her hands after smoothing down the material.

“Turn,” I say, and she does. “You look amazing.” 

“Do I look like a fun mom?” she asks.

“You look like a hot mom,” I say, winding an arm around her waist to get closer and kiss her cheek. “You look perfect.” 

I rub her outer arm to try and relax her, but those muscles stay tense. She skims a hand over her belly, which has started to show in the tiniest way, and lets out a long breath. 

“Everything’s gonna be fine,” I say. “It’ll be great.” 

“They haven’t seen me since,” she says. “What if they get freaked out by…” 

“Those eyes?” I fill in, already knowing what she’ll say because of the multitude of conversations we’ve had in the days leading up to this. “Those gorgeous eyes?” 

“Jackson,” she says, shaking her head while looking down. 

“They’re all adults,” I say. “They can handle themselves. I don’t even want you to think about them today. It’s P’s day. It’s our day! We kept our baby alive for a whole damn year.” 

She snorts and leans against me, resting her head on my shoulder. I kiss the crown, and give her a reassuring squeeze. 

“And if you need to take a rest, just say so. Don’t be afraid to say so.” 

“Okay,” she murmurs, then takes a deep breath. “We should get down there.” 

I swoop the baby out of the tub, kissing her cheeks exuberantly. “Get a load of this one-year-old!” I announce, lifting her high in the air. “This big, bad one-year-old!” 

April smiles and reaches for the baby, who goes to her eagerly. April gives her a big hug and sways from side to side, dropping kisses on Peyton’s pudgy cheeks and neck. 

“You’re growing too fast,” April says, lips moving against the baby’s forehead. “You better slow down.” 

Peyton coos happily and presses her hands to her mother’s face. I smile watching the both of them, feeling complete and satisfied. At least for today, everything is right. 

…

I keep an eye on April as people start to arrive. I don’t hover or make it a point to watch her, but I check in every few minutes with a silent sweep of the room. 

Much to my surprise, she’s enjoying herself every time I look. She’s laughing, drinking punch, and passing out hors d'oeuvres to the guests. She lets people feel her mini-bump, and doesn’t shut down. She socializes for almost a full hour before finding me, and at that point I’d abandoned my watch and started to do my own thing.

“Boo,” she says, coming up behind me to wrap a hand around my bicep. “Should we do the cake now?” 

“Hell yeah,” I say, then lead us both into the kitchen where it sits in the fridge.

We did end up going to Sweet Mandy B’s to get a customized cake. It’s chocolate with white icing, princess decorations, and ‘Happy First Birthday, Princess P!’ drawn in cursive with frosting. I spent at least twenty minutes describing it to April when we got it, until she felt like she could see it, too. 

_ What matters most is that I can taste it, _ she had said, which made us both laugh. 

“Here comes the cake!” I announce, and April walks by my side carrying the longer lighter and the candle shaped like the number one. 

April’s mom must have put Peyton in her high chair, because she’s positioned perfectly. The lights are dim and everyone is gathered around the table, waiting expectantly for the main attraction. 

I set it down and direct April’s hand in the right spot, and she sticks the candle in firmly before handing me the lighter. The candle flickers to life and Peyton watches in amazement, eyes wide and round, looking just like April’s used to when she was blown away by something. 

We all sing ‘happy birthday,’ and after, I notice April has gone a bit quiet. Everyone is waiting, and Peyton is still staring at the cake with that adorable expression on her face. 

It hits me harder than ever that April isn’t seeing this. She’ll never see either of our children on their birthdays, so it’s my job to bring her as close as possible. 

“She’s staring at the cake like it’s the best thing she’s ever seen,” I whisper, one arm around my wife’s shoulders. “Her eyes are so big. Like yours got, when you saw the ring I proposed with. You know?” 

She nods slowly, still listening. 

“She’s perfect,” I say. “She looks just like you right now. Like she can’t believe she’s turning one, either. The candle is shining on her face, kinda making her look all magical. It’s like something from a movie.”

“Yeah?” April says, very quietly.

“Yeah,” I say, and kiss her cheek slow. “We made her, baby. And here she is, turning one. Can you believe it?” 

She shakes her head, and a tear falls down either cheek. But this time, I know for certain they’re not from sadness, because I’m feeling the same way. 

“Before she gets all messy, let’s get a picture!” Karen says, interrupting the soft moment. 

“Sure,” I say, then nudge April. “Baby?” 

“Of course,” she says, and I come to realize that this will be her first photo since everything happened. It hadn’t crossed my mind before, because it was such a mundane thing to think about. But now, everything is different. 

We both kneel next to the high chair, and April turns her face in towards Peyton’s and closes her eyes, smushing a kiss to our one-year-old’s cheek. I mirror the pose, the room shrouded in darkness once I do, and wrap an arm around the both of them. 

After the camera clicks, the Polaroid comes out almost immediately. I hold it in my palm - the photo paper as white as April’s eyes - and the image begins to show out of the fog, just how I’d pictured. 

It’s the three of us, acting like us. Peyton is smiling big and happy, arms outstretched. And with both mine and April’s eyes closed and kissing her, we look like any other family. Because that’s what we are, and that’s all we can ask for. The three of us, soon to be four, with our own struggles and strife, but making it through every day. Creating our own version of normal and taking things as they come.

“Can someone turn on the lights?” Lexie asks. “I can’t see a thing.” 

For a moment, the whole room goes silent with anticipation and everyone looks to April, realizing the insensitive remark too late.

But I know better. I can see the laughter in the crinkles by her eyes, so I’m not surprised when she throws up her hands and says, “Yeah, for real. I can’t see a thing!” 


	13. Epilogue

**APRIL**

I eventually made friends with the piano. 

I got tired of being at home with nothing to do, so I sat down at the bench one day and told myself that by the time Jackson got home, I’d be able to play a rudimentary version of ‘Edelweiss’ from  _ The Sound of Music _ . 

It didn’t come without frustration, anger, and tears. But I didn’t let myself get up, no matter how angry I became. I sat there and ran my fingers over the keys, listening to the notes while remembering the sequence in which they flowed together. 

When he walked through the door that night with Peyton in tow, they walked in during the middle of a song.

“April,” he’d said, sounding stunned. “You’re playing.” 

I heard his footsteps approach on the carpet, padding softly while Peyton babbled nonsense. I let out a long exhale, finally relaxing my fingers against the keys. The song wasn’t what it used to be, but it was something. I made something. And I was something because of that. 

“I’m playing,” I’d said.

The next day, he left for work after our 20-week appointment and I was alone in the house yet again. I found my way to the piano and sat down, determined to refine my skills on the same song. 

That time, I sang along and the notes came together more cohesively than they had until that point. Sitting on the bench while singing the sweet lyrics, I felt a quickening inside me that I recognized instantly.

The baby was moving. 

I stopped playing, and the sensation stopped soon after. I blinked hard, smiling with tears in my eyes, then began to play again. Along with the notes and the sound of my voice, came little flutters and kicks from inside my belly. 

With one hand moving on the keys and the other resting over my stomach, I said, “Do you like that? Do you like that music?” 

My smile was so powerful that it hurt. I didn’t stop playing for the rest of the day, just so I could keep feeling those little movements. And when Jackson got home, I went through the song again so he could feel, too. 

It became a routine, the music and movement, and I kept those moments between me and my baby close to my heart. It was just the two of us as one, enjoying each other and the sound between us. They were moments that didn’t need to be seen to be experienced.

As the weeks passed and the kicks became stronger, I came to a sort of acceptance. Not for my situation, really, or how I got there. But for my life as a whole and everything it’s turned out to be, and will be in the future. 

For the first time in a long time, I felt something akin to hope.

…

My water breaks in the middle of dinner prep on a Sunday night. Jackson and I had been making chicken fried rice - well, he was standing behind me and guiding my hand with the knife to chop vegetables - and Peyton was on the floor, petting Corky. Jackson says she’s the only one who that dog would never bite. 

I hear the splash before I feel it, strangely enough. Then, Peyton squeals, “Potty!” 

“April,” Jackson says, and the sound of the knife against the cutting board stops. “Your water.” 

“I know,” I say, nerves lighting up my system. 

This isn’t our plan. The baby isn’t due for another week, and my mom was due to fly in around the due date so we could be ready at any given moment. This little one is early, and completely off-schedule. I start to sweat because of it.

“We’re fine,” Jackson says. “I’ll just… I’ll call my mom. Right?” 

“She’s in Thailand with Richard,” I say, leaning forward on the counter with my hands braced in front of me. I breathe deeply, trying to keep calm. “We have time. Don’t freak out.” 

“I’m not,” he says, and I hear him pick Peyton up from the floor. She starts to whine instantly, begging for Corky back, but Jackson ignores her.

“You are,” I say. “And it’s making me freak out. So, stop.” 

“I’m fine,” he says. “We just have to think of someone. Jo? Alex?” 

“No,” I say. 

“Mark and Lex?” 

“They have Poppy. We can’t ask that of them.” 

“April, you’re in labor,” he insists. “Jesus. Okay. What about Izzie?” 

“I…” 

There’s no reason not to call Izzie and ask her to come and watch Peyton. It’s not that I’ve been avoiding her specifically, but being around our friends still isn’t something I’m comfortable with. I’m hyper-aware of my eyes and the way they look; they make people uneasy. That makes me self-conscious, so I just forgo the interaction entirely. It’s been isolating at times, though I’ve been trying to get better. I’ve seen Izzie once or twice in the last few months, but it hasn’t been like it used to be. 

“Sure,” I answer. 

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll call her. Take Pey.” 

He hands Peyton over, who’s now 19 months old, nearly two, and a big girl. I can’t balance her on my hip so well with the baby bump in the way, but I do my best. 

She whines, begging to be let down, but I know better than to do that in this kitchen with liquid on the floor and sharp objects on the counter. She wriggles and fights me, and usually I’d say something to calm her down, but my mind is elsewhere.

This is actually happening. I’m about to have a baby, another baby. I’m about to bring a second life into the world.

I puff my cheeks out with air and ward off tears. I can’t afford to cry right now, I’m sure I’ll do plenty of it later in the midst of delivery. Right now, this is the easy part. My contractions haven’t even started yet. I’ll know when they do.

“Mama! Down,” Peyton says, more like a fish than a toddler at the moment. “Down now.” 

“Mama can’t,” I say. 

Then, luckily, Jackson comes back into the room. “She’s on her way,” he says. “Do you know where the bag is? The hospital bag? We packed it, right?”

“Front closet, with the shoes,” I say. “You know, we really don’t have to leave yet. We have some time. We’re either gonna wait here, or wait at the hospital, and-” 

“And I’d rather wait at the hospital,” he says, and I realize he’s in front of me again. “Step in. I got your sneakers, the blue ones. So, slide in tight.” 

“Those don’t fit me right now,” I say, exasperated. “And why should we wait there? I’d rather be comfortable here at home. You can call Izzie and tell her she doesn’t have to come for a few more hours.”  

“I’m scared, April,” he says, and I hear the solemnity in his voice. It makes me pause, one foot in the air as I was poised to put a shoe on, and his hands wrap around one ankle. “That’s why we have to go. I’m terrified.” 

The statement hits me with force, and I put my foot back on the floor. His hands stay holding my ankle gently, and I know his eyes are on my face. I’ve gotten good at feeling them. I hitch Peyton, who’s given up her plight to get down, a little higher on my hip and open my mouth to say something, but he sighs first. He leans forward, rests his forehead against my knee, and I lay my free hand on his shoulder. 

“So am I,” I say. 

“I know,” he says, very quietly. Peyton lays her head down on my shoulder in the way I love, and I smile softly at the slight weight. “But I’m the one that’s supposed to be brave through all this, and I don’t feel that way at all. I didn’t wanna tell you. But this… it’s like, actually happening, and I don’t want anything to go wrong.” 

“You can do this, boo,” I say, rubbing my thumb over the material of his t-shirt. I make a joke and say, “I’m the one getting my body torn in two for this.” 

He laughs, but not much. “Labor isn’t what I’m worried about,” he says. “You’ve done it before, and you’re a badass. You can do anything, you had to start life all over again and you did it. But what about after? When the baby’s here, and we have two?” 

I nod slowly. Of course, I’ve thought of that, too. It’s the only thing I’ve been thinking about for the past nine months. “I know,” I murmur. 

“I know we don’t have a choice, and this is probably the stupidest time I could’ve chosen to bring this up,” he says, sighing. He stands up and I feel his hands on my face, so I lean into him as Peyton is leaning on me. “But I had to tell you.” 

“I’m glad that you did,” I say. “But I don’t know if there’s anything I can say to fix it. I’m scared, too. I’m really scared.” I meant for the statement to stop there, but the words keep flowing. “I’m scared of holding the baby… they’ll be so small. Of changing diapers when I can’t see, of getting up in the night to breastfeed. I’m gonna need so much help, and I never needed that with this one.” I hoist Peyton up a little higher as I reference her. “I know we’ve talked about it. And I know we’re a team. But that doesn’t mean this will be easy.” 

“We’ve never done something like this before,” he adds. 

“I know.” 

“But we’re kickass parents, right? We can do it. If anyone can do it, it’s us.” 

“Are you telling me that, or yourself?” I ask, smirking a bit. 

“Quiet, you,” he says, then there’s a knock on the door. “Oh, shit. That’s probably Izzie.” He doesn’t move away, though, he stays with one hand on my shoulder and the other on my face. “Do you want me to tell her to come back later? If you wanna stay, let’s stay.” 

“No, we can go,” I say. “I think we’ll feel better if we go.” 

“Alright,” he says, then gives me a quick peck on the lips. I stay rooted in place as he goes to get the door, hearing him greet Izzie warmly.

Their footsteps move into the kitchen, and Peyton sits up straight as her favorite friend comes into view. She can’t say her name yet, so she does the next best thing by squealing, “Eee-eee!” 

“Hi, little Peanut,” Izzie says sweetly, coming closer. I can’t help but tense up, conscious of the way I look. I lower my eyelids to cover most of my eyes, and feel her presence standing in front of me. “Hey, April,” she says. 

“Hi,” I say. “Thanks for coming.”

“Are you kidding?” she says. “You don’t need to thank me. You’re off to have a baby!” 

I manage a smile. Put that way, excitement takes over the feelings of fear. The next time we come home, we’ll have a baby in tow. It doesn’t seem real. 

“Yeah,” I say. 

There’s a pause before she speaks again, I feel the emotions crackling inside it. “Can I hug you?” Izzie finally asks. “I know you’re not crazy about them anymore, but I miss you so much. Having you in front of me right now is like, the best thing.” 

Without giving her a verbal response, I set Peyton gently down on the floor and throw my arms around my best friend. I press my face into her neck and breathe deeply, tears pricking the backs of my eyes, and she hugs me back with equal intensity. 

“I love you, Iz,” I mutter. “And I’m sorry.” 

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Don’t say that.” 

I squeeze my eyes shut tight as she rubs my back, and pull away once the moment is over. I wipe at my eyes with the backs of my hands, then let out a laugh that sounds more like an errant sob.

“You gotta get going!” Izzie says, enthusiastically. “I wanna meet that baby.” 

“Okay,” I say, voice wobbly. “Pey’s pajamas are upstairs, folded on our bed. She’ll go down in about an hour or so, with a bottle. No paci, we’re trying to get rid of that. She won’t wake up, she’ll go straight through the night.” I take a deep breath. “And, um… we’ll call you when it happens.” 

“You want me to come to the hospital once it does?” 

“Of course. There’s an extra car seat for her in the mudroom,” I answer, and then extend one arm with my fingers out wide. Following routine, Jackson places the white cane in my hand and I tighten my grip at the top. 

“Okay,” Izzie says, then gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Good luck. I’ll be waiting for that call!” 

I smile without showing any teeth, then feel Jackson’s hand on the small of my back, leading me towards the door. We walk together, making our way down the steps, on the way to change our lives. 

…

During contractions, I’m surprisingly calm. 

The darkness, my constant darkness, is soothing over anything. I’m able to seclude myself in it, push away the sounds of Jackson’s and the doctors’ voices, and be completely alone with myself. I concentrate on the sound of my own breathing and picture the baby, which isn’t hard. We won’t know until they’re born if it’s a boy or a girl, but I’ve had a vague image in my head since they started kicking. I don’t have a guess for the sex, but I can see Jackson’s eyes and my smile - just like Peyton. On a perfect little round face, with, of course, a mop of curls atop their head. 

“Baby,” Jackson says, swiping my sweaty hair off my forehead. “Now’s the time for an epidural.”

His nose is pressed against the side of my face, one hand cupping the other cheek. His breath is minty, and he smells like perspiration and cologne. But maybe it’s me who smells like sweat, I don’t know. 

“I don't need it,” I tell him. 

“What?” he says. “Seriously?” 

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m gonna have this baby.” 

“Are you sure?” he says. “There’s nothing wrong with getting one.” 

“I’m sure,” I say. “I’m ready to push.” 

“Just a bit longer,” the doctor says. “We need you dilated a few more centimeters.” 

Jackson caps a hand on my knee and strokes my skin, though I know he’s still looking at me. He kisses my cheek and lingers there, nuzzling the apple of my cheek with his nose. “You’re amazing,” he says. 

I respond with a gentle smile, eyes closed. That’s all I need. 

…

The pain is white hot, but grounding. It gives me something to grasp, anchoring me to the earth while reminding me what I’m here for. When the baby’s shoulders come through, my body feels like it’s being ripped in half, but I don’t scream. I clench my jaw, bear down, and bring my second child to life. 

“It’s a boy!” 

I let my head fall back onto the pillow, entirely spent. My chest heaves, sweat trickles down the back of my scalp and over the slope of my neck, and Jackson wraps his arms around me. My body throbs, lit up with pain, but the salve of satisfaction brings it down a notch. I did it.

“It’s a boy, baby,” Jackson sobs, planting kisses all over my face. “It’s a boy.” 

“A boy,” I whisper, regaining my breath. Coming back to myself, the rhythmic sound of a baby’s cry fills the room, awakening my senses. That’s my baby, that’s my son. He’s here, he’s alive, and he’s crying for me. “Where is he?” 

“They’re cleaning him up,” Jackson says, still speaking close to my face as he strokes my skin. “You did so good, bitty. You did it, he’s here. Because of you.” 

I smile weakly and he kisses me some more, dropping his lips to any open patch of skin he can reach, even if it’s sweaty. 

“They’re wrapping him up,” Jackson says. “Oh my god, he’s so big.”

“Are you ready to meet your son?” a nurse asks. 

“Yes,” Jackson says to her, then returns to me. “He’s here, beautiful. He’s ready.”

I extend my arms, ready to take him, ready to feel the weight of my son in my arms for the first time. The nurse cautiously sets him in the cradle I’ve made, and I hold his little form close, all bundled up. I feel for his hand, but it seems to be tucked in, so I find his face instead and stroke his soft cheek with my pointer finger. 

Jackson lets out a sound between a chuckle and a sob next to me, and I realize he’s still crying. 

“He’s gorgeous, April,” he says. “Oh my god, he’s so damn gorgeous.”

I see darkness. I hear everything - Jackson’s sniffles, the baby’s coos, the doctor talking to the nurses about how I’ll need stitches - but all I see is darkness. Like usual, like any other day, like my newborn son isn’t lying right here in my arms.

I start to cry. I’m in seclusion once again, but this time it’s not calming. I’m excluded from this moment, from meeting my son, while everyone else participates in it. They can see his face, they can see how beautiful he is, but I can’t. I created him, but I don’t get to witness what I made. 

Jackson kisses my shoulder as I cry, pressing his lips there for an extended amount of time. When he lifts up, he starts speaking right away. 

“His skin looks just like Pey’s,” he says. “That light caramel. In the summer, I bet it’s gonna be bronze just like hers. It’s beautiful, baby, it’s so warm.” 

I sniffle, quieting my cries to listen to him. 

“His lips are so pink. A perfect little rosebud, you know… how Peanut’s were pursed when she was born. Like he’s gonna kiss you, just like that. And his nose, his little nose… it’s yours, baby. That cute little nose that I love. It’s perfect. And his eyes, well, you know our babies always have my eyes. That’s why they’re such stunners.” 

I laugh a little bit, shoulders bouncing. 

“And all that hair. It’s sticking up like yours does in the morning, every which way. Curly as hell, too. We’re gonna have a great time trying to tame that. But hey, I learned how to braid. Maybe we should open up our own salon for kids. Our babies as the models, of course.” 

I smile some more and lean against my husband, the baby in my arms now clearer than ever. He gave me a brand new image, breathed life into the dream I cultivated for what our baby would look like. 

Jackson kisses my cheek twice then combs his fingers through my damp hair. “He looks like an angel,” he whispers, softly so only I can hear. “He’s an angel.” 

I lean forward and press a kiss - the first kiss - to our son’s forehead. Then, with my lips still on his skin, I murmur, “Gabriel.”

…

 

> **THREE YEARS LATER**

 

With Jackson’s fingers interlaced through mine on one side and Gabe’s on the other, we make our way towards the main entrance of the school. 

“Daddy!” Peyton enthuses. “My classroom is this way.” 

Tonight is Peyton and Gabe’s Open House, where kids introduce their parents to their teachers and give them a tour of the school and classroom. Being that it’s Gabe’s first year, a three-year-old preschooler, and Peyton is finally in kindergarten, it’s a special event for both of them.

“Me first!” Gabe insists, tugging on my hand.

“Oldest first,” Peyton insists, standing near Jackson. “Right, mommy? That’s what you said.” 

“I did say that,” I muse. “Gabey, we’ll go see your classroom right after Sissy shows us hers. Alright? You just have to wait your turn.” 

He makes a disgruntled sound as I hold his chin with my thumb and first finger. He pouts, but keeps my hand and walks with us while Peyton leads the way to her class - room 105. 

“We’re here!” she announces, standing in front of me. “Mommy, be careful, ‘cause we made a paper chain and it’s hanging in the door and you might bump your head on it.” 

“Thanks, babe.” 

Jackson squeezes my hand for support, and I give him a squeeze back. As we walk inside the room, Gabe unlatches and I hear his footsteps run off in a different direction. 

“Did he leave?” I ask. 

“He just runned to the craft table,” Peyton says. “There’s tons of ‘struction paper and glitter and stuff. Also, he’s getting kinda messy.”

I chuckle and say, “It’s fine.”

“Okay. Look!” Peyton continues. “This is my desk. See my name tag, daddy?” 

“I do. It’s beautiful. Did you make that?”

“Yep. Mommy, I colored it pink and purple. Our favorites. Right?” 

“Of course,” I say. “The best colors in the world.” 

“And it’s right in the front of the room, mommy. It has a blue chair that connects, and the lid of the desk even lifts up. Look!” I hear the creak as she assumedly opens her desk. 

“Wow,” Jackson says. 

“Mommy, it’s organized and not messy at all. Just like your desk at home. Just like how you keep it. See?” She takes my hand and pulls it inside the desk. “Feel.”

I move my hand around and feel her things in neat stacks, pencils lined up on the side. “That’s so good, baby,” I say. “I’m proud of you.”

“And!” she says, hurrying away. “This way, mommy!” she calls from further across the room, and Jackson leads me to her voice. “I wanna show you what I drawed. Look, daddy. See us all?”

“I do. One question, P, where’s my hair?”

“You shaved it off baldie!” she squeals, laughing. “Mommy, I drawed Daddy baldie like when he shaves his head down. But I gave you really long, pretty red hair. And here’s Gabey. He has his curly ball hair head. And me. I have braids with the fun beads, like Auntie Izzie buys me.” 

“It’s beautiful, babe,” I say, soaking in the description she gives. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Avery!” I hear, and recognize Peyton’s teacher’s voice - Miss Hannah. “I’m so glad to see you here. I was just chatting with Gabe. Hey there, Miss Peyton.” 

“Miss Hannah!” Peyton says. “I brought my mommy and daddy to see everything. I’m telling Mommy about everything with words ‘cause she can’t see. But she says when I do that, it’s like she can really see ‘cause I tell it so good. Right, mama?” 

“Exactly right,” I say.

“Well, if there’s one thing Peyton’s good at, it’s using her words,” Miss Hannah says, directing the statement towards us. “She’s a pleasure to be around. You two should be proud.”

“We are,” Jackson says, snaking a hand around my lower back. “Right, Pey? We’re proud of you.” 

“You say it, like every day all the time,” she says, and I hear the eye-roll in her voice without having to see it. I laugh because of it, and Jackson snickers, too. 

“It was so good to see you,” Miss Hannah says, touching my elbow. “Are you still volunteering with the Girl Scout troop on the 17th?” 

“I’ll be there,” I say. 

“Mama! My turn!” Gabe demands, probably still from his spot at the craft table. 

“Oh,” I say. “That’s my cue. I’ll see you soon, Miss Hannah.” 

We say our goodbyes, and find our way to where Gabe and Peyton both sit at the table now. As we stand and wait for them to finish their projects, a few other kids and their parents come in and I hear the sound of a chair scraping back as Peyton stands up. 

“Kalani!” she shouts. “Hi!” 

“Peyton!” 

I hear footsteps as a little girl who must be a friend of Peyton’s rushes over, and Jackson lets go of my hand to help Gabe clean up. 

“Mama, this is Kalani. She’s my bestest new friend in class. Can we have a playdate soon?” She doesn’t give me time to answer before continuing with, “This is my mommy. Do you like her hair? I helped brush it today.” 

“Hi, Kalani,” I say, smiling down towards Peyton’s voice.

I don’t hear an answer, even as I furrow my eyebrows and listen for a small kid’s voice. Nothing comes.

“We’d love to have you over sometime,” I say. “As long as it’s okay with your parents.” 

“Kalani,” Peyton says, an edge to her voice.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and then a childlike whisper where they think their voice is quiet, when it’s really not at all. “Peyton, why are her eyes like that?” 

It’s been almost four years since the accident, four years since I went blind, four years of having stark white eyes. But even so, time doesn’t heal all wounds. And each time I hear a comment about my eyes - benign or not - that wound opens up a bit more. I know Kalani is a child, she’s not at fault for being scared or curious, but I still haven’t quite learned how to deal with situations like this. 

“Don’t say that,” Peyton says. “That’s mean. I don’t want a playdate anymore.” 

“Peyton,” I say, scolding her lightly. “It’s okay. Remember what I told you? Not everyone has a mom like me. It’s normal for people to wonder.”

“It’s not nice,” Peyton says. “I wanna go.” She takes my hand. “I wanna go now, mommy. I don’t wanna be in my classroom anymore, can we go to Gabe’s now?” 

“Sure,” I say, then reach an arm out for Jackson. “She’s ready to go,” I say.

“Oh,” Jackson says. “Sure.” 

We shuffle out of the room, led by Peyton, and make our way into the hall. Once we’re there, Peyton melts against my legs and wraps her arms around my thighs, pressing her face into my jeans. I reach down and pet her hair, feeling Jackson materialize at my side. 

“What’s going on?” he asks. 

“Her friend asked about…” I don’t finish the sentence. At this point, I don’t need to. 

“Oh,” he says. “Are you okay?” 

I shrug. “Let’s just go see Gabe’s room.” 

“My room!” he cheers. “104, 104, 104!” 

We go inside and he shows us everything - from his locker cubby, his spot on the rug, the math corner, reading corner, bean bags, and everything in between. We say hello to his teacher without a word from Peyton, but I just keep her close without trying to weasel a conversation out of her. I think we both need to let what happened settle before we talk about it, if we talk about it at all. Sometimes, letting it roll off the shoulders is the better option. 

When we go home, Jackson turns on the grill and the kids help me set the table on the back porch for dinner. Once all the plates, cups and silverware are in place and the meat is cooking, Jackson sits with me on a patio chair - his body behind mine, cocooning me with his legs on either side of my hips, my back against his chest. 

He trails his fingers up and down my arms, then kisses my hair. “You okay?” he asks. 

“Fine,” I answer, leaning further back against him. He wraps an arm around the front of my chest, straight across my sternum. He presses another kiss to my head, then one to my ear.

“Did what that little girl said bother you?” he goes on. 

I tip my head from side to side. “Of course it did,” I say. “I don’t like knowing that my eyes scare kids.”

“Mmm…” he hums, moving his head lower so his lips can attach to the side of my neck. “But you don’t scare  _ our _ kids.” 

“Of course I don’t. It’s all they know.” 

“You know Pey would defend you ‘til the death, right?” he says. “She won’t ever let people talk shit.”

“I know,” I say. “But it’s still always gonna be… you know, a thing.”

“Yes,” he says, moving the hand across my chest down to act as a seatbelt around my belly. “But so are the gray hairs in my beard that Gabe’s friends laugh at. Also, my big ass.” 

“Your ass is not big,” I mutter, smacking his wrist. 

“You only say that ‘cause you can’t see it,” he says, and we both laugh. 

“I try not to let it get to me,” I say, after we’ve calmed down again. “But when I hear things like that… I don’t know, it’s a reminder.” 

“I know,” he says. 

“I know you do,” I say. “I just had to say it.” 

“Well, here’s another reminder,” he says. “We have two awesome kids. And when I say awesome, I mean it. And none of us would be here right now if it weren’t for you.” 

“Blindness and all.” 

“Yeah, your blind ass,” he says, kissing my temple. “But seriously, April. Really. You do more in a day than a sighted mom could do in a week. While dodging that bitchy Pomeranian, no less. And beating the shit out of me with your cane.” 

I bump him with my shoulders. “Enough out of you,” I murmur.

He smiles, I feel it against the slope of my shoulders. He believes that I brought our family to this point, where we are today, but I’m not sure if that’s true. It wasn’t just me, or just him, or just the kids. It was all of us. As a unit, we saw ourselves through the dark and into the light. Some days we fall back and realize we’re still trying to get there, and I have to remember it’s not about the end destination. It’s about the path taken to get there. And I think the path we’re on is a pretty damn good one.

“Hey,” Jackson mutters, tightening his arm around my belly. “Gabe and Pey are watching those birds on the gate again.” He laughs quietly. “They love it.” 

“Corky’s gonna come running out here any second and chase them away.” 

“Shh. Don’t jinx it. They’re happy,” he whispers, then pauses for a moment. “Have I ever told you that they both have your smile?” 

I smile that same smile to myself now, reaching to hold the side of his face. I turn my head, kiss him softly, and say, “Every day.” 


End file.
